Anecdotes of the aristocracy, and episodes of ancestral story

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ROMANTIC RECORDS

OP

DISTINGUISHED FAMILIES;

BEING THE

SECOND SERIES

tartoa d tjrt Iriatorrartj.

J. BERNARD BURKE, ESQ.,

AUTHOR OF "THE PEERAGE AND BARONETAGE."

Second ©mtton.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL I.

LONDON :

E. CHURTON 26 HOLLES STREET.
1851.

LONDON:

MVEES AND CO., PRINTERS, 37, KING STREET,

COVENT GARDEN.

CONTENTS

THE FIRST VOLUME.

PAGE

The Heir of the Glanvilles .... 1

The Decadence of Families .... 28

The Dream of Sir Thomas Prendergast, Bart. 40

The Tragedie of Sir John Eland of Eland . 52

The Earl of Essex 80

The Imprisoned Lady 83

The Beautiful Miss Ambrose . , . 88

The Master of Burleigh ... 20

The St. Lawrences, (Earls of Howth) . . 98

An Irish Landlord 102

The Radiant Boy ; an Apparition seen by the

late Marquis of Londonderry . . .105

Sir John Dinelt, Bart. 109

The Legend of Chilungton . . . .118

A Welsh Tradition ... . 126

CONTENTS

PAGE

128
142
147
156
161

The Siege of Corfe Castle, Dorsetshire

Pembroke and Wharton

Queen Anne's Great-Grandmother

The Byron Family

Lady Harriet Acland ....

The Lees ... . 172

The White Knight's Tome ; a Tale op Kilmallock 181

A Tale op Bulgaden Hall 191

The Good Earl op Kingston .... 203

Lisnabrin 210

The Duel between the Duke of Wellington

and the Earl op Winchilsea . . . 230

The Earl op Chester 246

Calverley op Calverley 257

Grace O'Malley . . .... 301

Roderio O'Connor, the last King of Ireland 320

Sir William Wyndham and the White Horse 327

Old English Hospitality . . 331

Actresses raised by Marriage .... 335

KOMANTIC RECORDS

DISTINGUISHED FAMILIES.

THE HE IE OE THE GLA.NVILLES.

It was the late hour of nine at night — late
that is for the days of Charles the First — and yet
the tavern of the Golden Hawk was well nigh
deserted, and had been so for the last three hours,
although one of the most favourite resorts of the
gallants in the neighbourhood of Powles, as St.
Paul's was then familiarly called. Three visitors
alone were to be seen there ; one occupied a cor-
ner by himself; the other two were lazily dis-
cussing a quart of sherry amidst clouds of smoke
of their own raising, while they half reclined upon
the benches. As regards these last, there was a
considerable difference in their ages, and even more

VOL. I. B

2 THE HEIR OF

so in their manners ; the younger had all the appear-
ance of a man who had been bred up amidst the
luxuries of fortune, and although his face was
haggard, and his cloak was soiled, it was plain
enough to see that he was, in the language of the
times, a cavalier ; the elder was in the prime of
life, or even something beyond it, and had an air
of good humoured swagger, which, with the farther
evidence of his buff belt, sun-burnt cheeks, and
enormous black moustaches, gave ample grounds
for setting him down as a soldado, — as one, that
is, who had seen service.

For some time the worthy compotators perse-
vered in this sleepy silence, when the soldier, who
had just brought his pipe to an end, suddenly
burst out with — " Sir Francis, as I hope thou
wilt be one day, when thy old father, the excellent
Sir John, exchanges the furred robe of a judge
for a woollen shroud — I pray of thee to expound
me one small matter ? "

"And what is it? " asked the other.

" Why, is it not strange now, that Frank Glan-
ville should sort and consort with a fellow like me,
wasting his time in taverns, drinking, dicing, and
brawling, when he might be a man of worship
and, for ought I know, sitting on the same bench
with his father ? I should like to know the reason
of it."

THE GLANVILLES. 6

" The same reason, I suppose, that makes a
tavern-hunter, drinker, dicer, and brawler, of
Master Dick Tavestock."

" The cases are not alike," replied the soldier,
filling up his pipe again. " My money went long
ago, so did my character, so did my good for-
tune ; but you have prospects — at least you
would have, if you played your cards better."

" I defy any one to play his cards better, or
troll the doctors better than I do,'' replied Francis,
wilfully mistaking him, though in a manner that
shewed he felt the rebuke.

" In that sense I grant you ; but I spoke of
playing your cards with the grave judge you
father — humouring the old man in his whims —
foiling the plans of the fox, your brother."

" What plans ?" demanded Frank.

" Folks say he's a good young man, a nice young
man, a steady young man, one that wears a well-
starched ruff, wipes his mouth cleanly after a
single glass of sherris, sticks to his law-books — in
short, a chip of the old block !"

" And what then ? what is it to me whether he
drinks one glass or a dozen ? I'm not to pay for
them, am I ?"

" No, you're only to pay for what he does not
drink."

" The devil I am."

b 2

4 THE HEIR OF

" Why now, only tell me one thing ; isn't it as
easy to write John as Frank ? and though you be
an elder brother, the judge can do as he pleases
with his own."

Frank was now fully roused from hjs apathy ;
starting up, he exclaimed, " You don't mean to
say that the judge has really any thought of disin-
heriting me ?"

" More unlikely things have come to pass," re-
plied the soldier.

" And who the devil has put this into your
head? it never came there of itself I'll be
sworn."

" Perhaps not," replied the soldier ; " but there
it is, however."

" Come, come, Dick, this is no joking matter.
Tell me where you got your information, and I
shall the better know what to think of it."

" I'll tell you what to think of it ; think that
it's true, and see how it may be best mended. It
will be cursedly unpleasant when the old one dies
to find you have more cause to mourn for yourself
than for him."

" Well, Dick, I know you love me "

" To be sure I do," interrupted the other ; " the
next best friend to him who has fought at one's
side, is the honest fellow who drinks with one
from night till morning, and never flinches."

THE GLANVILLES. 5

" Then, I think, you might say how you came
by the knowledge of this."

" Oh, a little bird whistled it in my ear, but
whether it was a goldfinch or a blackbird, I can't
recollect just now, and it does not much signify ;
were it my case I should certainly render brother
John incapable of inheriting by knocking him on
the head."

" Why, you don't mean this seriously ?"

" Don't I though !"

" Nonsense ; you don't mean it, and if you did,
it would little matter ; I hold John incapable of
playing me false. Even were it not so, he shall
come to no harm from me. I have wronged many
— myself perhaps most of all — but I will not
wrong him."

" Bravely mouthed — diavolo !"

•' What's the matter now ?"

" It's my belief old square-toes in the corner
yonder, has been overhearing us all this while.
Did you see the look he cast our way just now ?"

" What signifies ? I have said nothing that I
would not just as lief say in Powles or from the
standard in Chepe."

Whether he had heard them or not, the old man,
who had all the appearance of a wealthy merchant,
took no notice of this remark, but summoned the
drawer, and having discharged his moderate reckon-

6 THE HEIR OF

ing, quietly left the room ; in passing them, how-
ever, he gave them a brief but searching glance,
which made the soldier's wrath blaze up in an in-
stant ; he dashed down his cup, and swore lustily
that he would crop the merchant's ears for him, a
threat he was likely enough to have executed, if
Francis had not interfered. It was not that the
latter had in general the slightest objection to these
tavern-brawls, but there was something in the
mild, sympathising glance of the stranger, that for
a moment called into action the better feelings,
which, though they had long lain dormant in him,
had never been totally extinct. Neither was the
soldier's wrath of a very enduring kind ; laughing
at himself, he returned the half drawn sword to
its sheath, and applied himself once more to the
wine-cup. But even this occupation, it seemed,
had lost its relish, for he set it down again with a
grimace as if it had been physic.

" It's a queer thing," he said, " but drink as I
will I can't comfortably get drunk like other
people. And yet I have been soaking till sack
and sherris have no longer any taste in my mouth,
more than so much water."

" Why then since no one appears likely to visit
the Golden Hawk to-night, suppose we hunt
abroad for something to amuse us. If we can find
no jolly fellows like ourselves who are willing to

THE GLANVILLES. (

exchange a few blows with us in the way of love
and good fellowship, we must e'en content our-
selves with drubbing the watchmen, or being
drubbed by them — it does not much matter which."

"Not a fico, lad — not a whit — not a jot, so as
we have a row of some kind."

And forthwith the boon companions sallied forth
into the night.

At the time of our narrative — our true narratives
be it remembered — the streets of London were
lighted in a way that was only calculated to shew
the darkness, and to dispel so much of it as might
better enable the thieves and the disorderly of all
sorts to carry on their separate vocations. The
watchmen were for the most part selected, not
from their fitness to the office but because they
were fit for nothing else, and with their brown
bills, and cressets instead of lanterns, they were
anything but remarkable for maintaining order.
The spirit of the age too was favourable to coarse
indulgence ; robbery itself, though a crime in the
eye of the law, was far from being so severely
condemned by public opinion, and he who felt
disposed to play the midnight robber either in the
city or on the highways, might do so in exceed-
ingly good company. In general therefore it was
unnecessary to go far or wait long in search of
adventures suited to the tastes of a roystering

8 THE HEIR. OF

blade, as they then called the wild debauchee and
Mohock of a latter period. Accordingly they had
not gone far beyond St. Paul's church-yard, when
from one of the many small streets opening into
the greater thoroughfare, like so many lesser blood-
vessels opening into a larger artery, they heard the
clash of swords, mingled with brutal oaths and
cries for help. Such sounds were music to the
ears of our two wild-bloods, who instantly started
off for the spot as if by mutual consent, when upon
turning the corner they saw a man with his back
against the wall defending himself as best he might
against three ruffians. The moon being bright
and shining full upon the scene, they had no diffi-
culty in discovering that the weaker party was the
stranger of the Golden Hawk.

" Voto de Dios !" exclaimed Tavestock ; " 'tis
the old fellow we took for a citizen ; but when did
a flat-cap ever stand upon his defence in such sol-
dierly fashion ?"

"He may be the devil for aught I care," said
his companion ; " but being as he is, one against
three, I'll do my best to help him."

"Agreed," replied the soldier; "fair play for
ever !"

And with this cry they both drew their swords,
and without more warning set upon the assailants,
who finding themselves thus opposed to equal

THE GLANVILLES. 9

numbers when they least expected it, immediately
took to their heels. The aid, however, had but
just come in time. It is true that the two or three
wounds the old man had received were too slight
to be worth speaking of, but even in this brief
struggle his strength had begun to fail him, for it
was only by the exercise of an activity far beyond
his years that he had succeeded in keeping the
ruffians at bay. In another minute the affair had
probably been settled by his death. The first
impulse of the two allies was to pursue them, but
the authoritative tone of the old man checked their
purpose.

" You shall run into no useless danger on my
account," he said; "there is no telling how near
others of the gang may be."

The valiant captain scouted the idea of danger
from such scum of the earth, as he called them»
protesting that he had often stood single-handed
against a dozen taller fellows ; but the stranger was
peremptory ; his age and manner both carried
command with them notwithstanding his gentle-
ness ; and farther, to assure himself of their obedi-
ence he requested they would see him safe home to
his lodgings in the neighbourhood of the Savoy.
To such a request there could be no decently de-
murring, and the captain complied, the rather as he
hoped on some future occasion to make the night's

B S

10 THE HEIR OF

adventure a means of drawing the old gentleman s
purse-strings.

On reaching a narrow street not far from the
Savoy, the old man knocked at the door of a
house which stood at the extreme end, where it
was closed in by an iron railing preventing any
thoroughfare.

" Here," he said, " we must part for the present,
for mine is an orderly household, and brooks no
late hours. But you now know my lodgings, and
when I farther tell you that I am William Crymes,
of Killworthy, near Tavistock, in Devonshire, no
more need be said to-night."

" Tavistock ! why they call me Tavestock," ex-
claimed the captain. " By Saint George and his
dragon to hoot, I would we were as near in blood
as in name."

" I said my name was Crymes," replied the old
man drily.

"Did you?" retorted the unblushing soldier;
" then it is your estate which is my namesake ;
and no offence to you, old gentleman, it were the
better kinship."

" Be it so ! I have no inclination to dispute that
or anything else you may choose to advance at this
late hour. Let me see you both to-morrow at
midday, 'till when God be with you."

The street door opened while he was thus speak-

THE GLANVILLES. 11

ing, and the old man having entered it was closed
again without farther question. The two boon
companions stood looking at each other for a few
moments in dumb surprise at such laconic pro-
ceedings, and then simultaneously burst into a fit
of laughter.

" The old gentleman," said Francis, " stands
on little ceremony with his friends."

" As little," replied the soldier, " as I would
with a tavern-drawer, or my landlord's fubsy
wife when there's no rent owing ; — marry, when
I'm six months in arrear, as will sometimes
happen, 'tis another matter. But nevertheless,
and notwithstanding, as you lawyers say, I '11
make something out of the old fellow — something
handsome, too — and of that you may rest as cer-
tain as of death, or quarter-day, or any other
thing equally agreeable."

The next day, as the appointed hour drew nigh,
Francis began to think that however excellent a
companion the captain might be in a tavern, his
buff jerkin and military oaths were not the best
suited to the meridian of a grave family : what
was still worse, the noscitur e socio — or, according
to the vernacular proberb, Birds of a feather flock
together — might be applied in the present case
which he was sensible would be little to the
honour of Master Francis Glanville — an individual

12 THE HEIR OF

whose interest he felt himself particularly bound
to study. Now, without exactly knowing why,
he had a strong desire to stand in the good graces
of his new acquaintance, which he thought could
not be better done than by paying his intended
visit alone ; and, as good luck would have it,
when he had mounted up to the dingy attic
tenanted by the captain in the purlieus of White
Friars, he found that worthy fast asleep, from the
effect of the previous night's debauch.

" It would be a pity to wake him," said Frank
to himself, with a smile expressive of much in-
ternal satisfaction ; and, having crept down the
stairs no less gently than expeditiously, he speeded
off to his appointment.

To his demand of whether Mr. Crymes could
be seen, the servant who had opened the door to
him replied by shewing him into a small, oak-
panelled chamber, and requesting that he would
sit down, and wait awhile.

Thus left to himself, Francis began to examine
the family portraits that made a part of the panel-
ling, being let into it without frames, and almost
seeming to be painted upon it. Amongst this
goodly collection, which from the various cos-
tumes looked marvellously like a masquerade, he
had no difficulty in recognising the picture of his
new acquaintance — a stiff, wooden affair, but still

THE GLANVILLES. 13

so formidable a likeness that it was impossible
for the most unpractised eye to mistake it for a
moment. By its side was the portrait of a young
girl, the work of a different hand, or else the
charms of the original had inspired the artist, and
taught him to paint in a way very different from
his usual style. Francis became irresistibly
smitten.

" Was ever anything half so beautiful ? " he
exclaimed. " What eyes ! what a forehead !
— white and polished as ivory ! — what cheeks ! — ■
the carnation blending with the lily ! "

The rustling of silk, and a light " Ahem ! "
made him suddenly turn round, when who should
stand before him but the undoubted original of
the portrait he had been so much admiring. It
would be hard to say which blushed most deeply,
the gentleman or the lady ; and yet there was an
arch smile about the lips of the latter, that seemed
to say she enjoyed the joke not a little.

Frank bowed, and stammered out something, he
scarcely knew what; but the lady — blessings on
the modesty of the ladies ! they have ten times
the assurance of your male animal — the lady,
making a profound courtesy, at least as much in
mockery as in compliance with etiquette, informed
him that her father, though in no danger, was still
too much indisposed, from the affair of the night

14 THE HEIR OF

before, to see any one just then, but would gladly
receive his preserver the moment his health would
allow of it.

To this Frank replied by expressing his hopes,
and his thanks, and his delight that the old gen-
tleman was in no danger, till, having exhausted
these topics, he was suddenly brought to a stand-
still, unwilling to quit the charmer, and yet not
knowing how to prolong the conversation. A
few minutes only had wrought a marvellous change
in the bold reveller. The fact was, he had fallen
in love — over head and ears — love at first sight ;
and, like most gentlemen in that unhappy situa-
tion, was disposed to make himself pre-eminently
ridiculous. But, as such scenes, however pleasant
to the actors therein, have little or no amusement
for the spectator, we may as well drop the curtain.

The next day he repeated his visit — the next,
and the next — still without seeing the old man,
but always growing more enamoured of his
daughter. In this way a fortnight passed, when
instead of being invited, as usual, into the little
oak parlour, he was informed that the old gentle-
man had set off that very morning for Tavistock.

" Set off this morning for Tavistock, and it was
only yesterday that he was too ill to see me ! Is
Miss Elizabeth at home ? "

" Miss Crymes has gone with her father."

THE GLANVILLES. 15

By the time the door was shut — and it did not
long remain open, the servant seeming but little
disposed to protract the conversation — Francis
had satisfied himself that the old gentleman, like
many other great promisers, was inclined to forget
the service of the past, and turn his back upon
him. The first feeling, naturally enough, was
that of high indignation against Mr. Crymes ;
but it in the next moment took another turn,
recoiling upon himself, and he began to think
that if the old man had discovered his passion
for his daughter, and had in consequence taken
this way of nipping it in the bud, he had only
acted after the fashion of the world.

" How," he exclaimed, in the bitterness of self-
accusation, " how could I think that any man of
name and substance would bestow his daughter's
hand upon one like myself, a bankrupt alike in
character and fortune ? If I am neglected, spurned
like a hound from the door, it is no more than a
fit reward for my own folly. He who plants a
briar, has no right to look for grapes ; he who
sows the storm, must expect to reap the whirl-
wind. And yet, methinks the old man might have
used more courtesy in his scorn or his prudence,
whichever it may have been. He need not have
shut the door in my face, as if I were a beggar,
whose importunity must be got rid of, the sooner

16 THE HEIR OF

the better. But it is ever thus; once wroiig,
and always condemned ! "

For the next week his mood underwent so
many changes, and all of such extremes, that the
Captain, who in his way was really attached to
him, began to tremble for his reason. It was
alternately a scene of the ildest debauchery, and
a remorse that bordered upon madness, till by the
tenth day he was so wasted, and had become so
altered from his former self, that his best friends
would scarcely have recognised in him the gay and
handsome Frank Glanville of a short time previous.
His chambers were in the Temple, and there he
lay, extended upon a sofa, gazing vacantly on the
river and the white sails of the boats that danced
along merrily in the breeze and sunshine. It was
a pleasant sight enough for any one who had been
in a fitting temper to enjoy it ; but such was not
the case with our unlucky friend Francis.

As he lay in this state, there came a gentle
knock at his chamber door ; and upon his calling
to the person without to enter, a serving-man
made his appearance, clad in a sober livery, such
as beseemed one who followed a substantial rather
than a fashionable master. He was the bearer of
a note, which proved to be from the old gentle-
man, containing a laconic invitation to visit him
without delay. Upon reading this letter, a flush

THE GLANVILLES. 1?

of indignation passed over Frank's cheek, and
starting up under the impulse of this new current
of feelings, he exclaimed : " Tell your master I
can't come — I won't come ! "

The domestic looked at him with surprise.

" Have you not heard me, fellow ? or are you
so dull that you can't understand me ? Say to
your master, I won't come ; and the sooner you
are off with your message the better. I wish to
be alone."

And the terrified domestic, fully convinced that
he had a maniac to deal with, bolted out of the
room, and flew down the stairs at his utmost
speed. By the time, however, that he had got to
the bottom, Frank repented of his violence, and
hurried out to recall him ; but in the next instant
his mood changed again, like the weather-cock
veering about on a gusty day, and, closing the door
hastily, he flung himself again upon the sofa.

An hour or more had passed in this way, when,
without any previous notice, the old man made
his appearance. He cast a hasty, enquiring glance
at the invalid, as if to satisfy himself that what he
had heard of his state was true ; and then, before
the latter could make up his mind how to receive
him, he began in a tone of sympathy, that showed
anything but diminished interest in the fortunes
of his young friend.

18 THE HEIR OF

" I am sorry," he said, " to find you in this
condition — sad ! sad !— and I much fear the tidings
I bring are not of a kind to heal mental or bodily
suffering. Fear, did I say ? it was an ill-chosen
word, I am only too certain."

Frank gazed at him with wonder, and no slight
degree of interest, but he made no reply. The
old man, his eye still intently fixed upon him,
continued.

" Since we last parted I have been busily en-
gaged in your service, and I did hope at one time
to have been the bearer of more pleasant tidings
in requital for the good office you rendered me
the other night. Your father — "

Frank started at the word, and seeing the old
man hesitate, requested with some impatience that
he would proceed.

" Have you then the courage," he replied, " to
hear the very worst that can be told you ? "

" I can guess it without telling ; my father has
disinherited me. But if not a kind man, he is a
just man, and so may Heaven prosper me as I will
give him good cause to revoke that sentence ere
many months have gone over my head. The
tale of our Fifth Harry, who from a wild prince
became a sober king, shall no longer be a doubt-
ful one ; I will shew by myself that it is possible
■ — very possible. Yes, by Heavens, I will fling

THE GLANVILLES. 19

aside my follies as I would a garment that I had
grown ashamed of, and my father shall see that
the disinherited Frank is as well worthy of his
regard as the cold, prudent John, he who does
nothing from the heart but all from the head,
and is charitable without smypathy."

" A wise and wholesome resolution," said the
old man, who had listened to this wild tirade with
a peculiar look that could hardly have escaped
Frank's notice, had he not been so much carried
away by his own feelings, — " a wise and wholesome
resolution. It cannot fail to bring a blessing with
it, though not in the way you expect. But you
have not as yet invited me to seat myself, and I am
old as well as somewhat weary from my yester-
day's travel."

Francis started up with many apologies, and
placed a chair for his visitor, who as he seated
himself took him kindly by the hand, and continued
in a tone of the deepest sympathy.

" Bear with me if I am tedious, for it is the
fault of age, and moreover there is a part of my
tale that I am in no haste to come to. I had learnt
by chance, at a time when I least thought I should
ever take the interest I now do in your concerns,
that Sir John Glanville intended to disinherit
you in favour of your younger brother. From the
conversation which passed between you and your

20 THE HEIR OF

companion at the tavern the other night, I could
not help thinking, whatever might have heen your
follies, you deserved better than to be made a
mere cast-away. Still this was no business of
mine, and assuredly I should not have felt my-
self justified in interfering but for what fol-
lowed. When you saved my life from those
same midnight ruffians the case was altered ; it
became my duty to exert myself in your behalf,
and I lost no time in calling at your father's
lodging ; he had gone down to his hall of Tavis-
tock ; I followed him ; he was too ill to see any
one. I called again the next day — the next —
and the next — still the same answer, with the ad-
dition that he was much worse than before. Now
I am not suspicious — Heaven forbid I should be,
for it is the mark of something wrong in one's self
— but I saw that in any case the time was come
for decisive measures, and I requested an imme-
diate interview with your brother, who I under-
stood was in attendance upon Sir John."

" And my brother ? " exclaimed Frank.

" He acceded to my request. I explained the
reason of my coming down, that I was determined
to open Sir John's eyes to the injustice he was
about to commit, or had committed rather."

" Indeed !

" Yes, I used no reserve for the matter — very

THE GLANVILLES. 21

foolishly you may perhaps imagine, but it's a way
I have ; I always go straight to the mark without
disguise, and so I hope I always shall do."

"And once again, my brother? what answer
made my brother ?"

" That Sir John was in a state of delirium, and
therefore unfit to hold communication with any
one ; but the moment a change took place for the
better he would let me know, if I thought proper
to remain in the neighbourhood."

" Go on, sir, I beseech you."

" Well, I had not come so far to return without
my errand, so I gave your brother notice that I
should take up my abode in Tavistock at the
Green Eagle, where I would abide until I heard
from him. Upon this understanding we parted.
And sure enough upon the fifth day after my first
visit came a messenger in hot haste to summon me
back to the hall again. Your brother was below
waiting to receive me, and in a few words informed
me that as Sir John was now sensible, I might see
him if I pleased, but that he felt assured it would
be useless as regarded yourself, and painful to
your father, who had not long to live."

Francis groaned heavily, and turning away his
head, exclaimed, in a suffocating tone, " What
needs any more ? — he is dead ! — my poor father ! ''

" Nay, but hear me out ; for in this cup of

THE HEIR OF

misery, bitter as it is, there is yet one drop of
comfort, which may help to render more tolerable
the draught that must be swallowed. I persisted ;
whereupon, your brother said in his usual cold
manner, * It was my duty, Sir, to warn you of
what would be the likeliest results of your pro-
posed interview. I have done so ; you refuse
credence to my assertions, and it is now, therefore
my duty to let you put them to the proof, by
bringing you to Sir John. I am ready.' "

" Ah, there, indeed," cried Frank, " I recognise
my brother — his duty — always his duty. How
often have I mocked him for that very phrase !
And now, go on, Sir, — go on, I entreat you;
keep me not a moment longer on the rack than
needs must be."

" Briefly, then, I was conducted to the bed-side
of the dying man ; and, seeing at the first glance
that not a moment was to be lost, I entered
with little preface upon the object of my mis-
sion. I told him all I knew, and all I hoped
of you — for I do hope of you, and for you
— so much so indeed that I could verily — but that
is for another hour. And your poor father ! be-
lieve me, his heart once again warmed towards you.
While I spoke, his broken eye lighted up with a
joy that seemed to me something more than earthly ;
he pressed my hand feebly to his bosom, and

THE GLANVILLES. 23

struggled to say something to your brother John,
but all we could make out was your name, and he
died with it upon his lips. Be of comfort then,
my young friend ; you have indeed lost your
father's estate, but you have not forfeited his
blessing. "

We have dwelt upon these details, gleaned with
much labour, and almost grain by grain, from
various sources, because without them the singular
catastrophe of this family tradition, though borne
out by facts, would seem incredible. What next
intervenes may be hurried over without much in-
jury to the general understanding of the story.

Stimulated by his love for Elizabeth, the dis-
inherited followed his law-studies with an unflinch-
ing ardour that made weeks do the work of months
and months the work of years. His lamp burnt late
at night, his curtains were drawn early in the morn-
ing ; and no sooner had the old gentleman con-
vinced himself that this was no passing impulse but
a fixed and enduring determination than he helped
the student liberally with his purse, and at length
gave him indirectly to understand that if he would
persist in the same course for two years longer
there should be no opposition made to his union
with Elizabeth. The goal, thus set before him
was indeed a distant one, a speck it might be
called in the horizon of the future, but it was

24 THE HEIR OF

dearly visible notwithstanding ; and in additio n
to all this his pride— and what stronger impulse
does the human heart acknowledge? — urged
him to continue as he had begun ; above all, he
would shew his brother that he could do without
him.

The two allotted years had at length passed
away, employed by Francis with little or no ces-
sation in laying the foundations of that know-
ledge which distinguished him in after life ; and
what was more, he had fully convinced his friendly
monitor that his reformation was real, and likely to
be permanent. It was now, therefore, agreed that
he should be shortly married to Elizabeth ; and,
as such things are seldom long in getting abroad,
to the extent at least of the parties' immediate
circle, the news came to the ear of John Glanville ;
for what else could have induced him to invite his
brother as he now did, to a solemn feast of recon-
ciliation ? Frank had still so much of the ancient
Adam in him as made him strongly inclined to"
reject this proffered kindness ; but Mr. Crymes
happened to be present when the note came to
hand, and urged him in a way that admitted of
no denial to accept it. "Fraternal hatred," said
the kind old man, " is a bad preparative for the
holy sacrament of marriage. It is most fitting,
that when you approach the altar it should be

THE GLANVILLF.S. 25

with a heart void of offence to man and Heaven
or little good will come of it."

It was with no pleasant feelings that Frank
prepared for the meeting with the brother from
whom he had been so long divided; but Eliza-
beth and her father had also been invited, and,
though with some stru^glings of the spirit, he de-
termined so to play his part as not to shame him=
self in their eyes. Upon entering the hall, into
which he was at once conducted by the servant,
he found the party was to be limited to themselves;
the table was spread for four only, and the old
man, who was there already with his daughter,
stood leaning on the back of a chair, and anxiously
watched the scene of meeting. In the next mo-
ment, John had stept forward, and, having wel-
comed him kindly but gravely, led him to the seat
at the head of the table.

"Excuse me, brother," said Frank, drawing
back; "the seat of honour in my father's house
'is yours by my father's will, and to me that will
must be sacred. Long may you live to enjoy it!"

Old recollections came upon him as he spoke,
opening up the fount of all his better feelings,
and when he pressed John's hand, it was with a
warmth of which but a minute before he would
have thought himself incapable. The old man's
eyes filled with tears; Elizabeth trembled and

vol. i. C

26 THE HEIR OF

turned pale, but smiled at the same time; and
in that smile Frank would have felt himself
amply rewarded for any sacrifice. Even the
stoicism of John was evidently affected, though he
endeavoured to maintain his usual staid de-
meanour.

"It is well said," he replied, " but, neverthe-
less, you must, for once, oblige me in this small
matter. And now, brother Frank, that we are
all seated, be pleased to uncover the dish before

you."

Frank complied but started back upon opening
it, and dropt the cover.

" What have we here ?" he exclaimed. " Parch-
ments ! "

"Even so," replied his host; "the deeds that
transfer our father's estates to his natural heir —
that is, to yourself."

Frank, for the moment, was absolutely struck
dumb by the bewilderment of his feelings, and
looked from one to the other, his lips quivering,
but unable to give utterance to any intelligible
sound. In the benevolent smile of his old friend,
it was plain to see that the latter had been prepared
beforehand for what had just taken place ; while
poor Elizabeth between joy and surprise seemed
on the very point of going into hysterics. At
length Frank exclaimed, yielding to the irresistible

THE GLANVILLES. 27

impulse of the moment : " And yet, for two
years, you have left me to struggle single-handed
with the world ! "

" It was my duty, Frank ; for so our father
would have acted while unassured of your con-
stancy in better courses. Had he lived to see
this welcome change in you, there can be as little
question that he would have restored to you your
natural inheritance. In his name, therefore, I
give back to your reformation what you had for-
feited by your misconduct ; — for it is my duty."

To tack a moral to our tradition — for why
should not truth have its moral, as well as fable?
— the rigid fulfilment of a duty brought, as it
generally does, a blessing with it. In due process
of time, John Glanville became a Serjeant-at-
Law, was elected Recorder of Plymouth, served
in several parliaments, and received the honour
of knighthood from Charles at Whitehall (7th of
August, 1641), and died in high repute, on the
2nd Oct. 1661, when he was buried at Broad
Hinton. Of the principal personage of our story,
little more has come down to us; but we may
safely infer that his age fulfilled the promise of
his youth, for he, too, received the honour of
knighthood, and died Sir Francis Glanville.

c2

28

THE DECADENCE OF FAMILIES.

" Vain transitory splendours ! could not all
Eeprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?"

It has often occurred to us that a very inter-
esting Paper might be written on the rise and fall
of English families. Truly does Dr. Borlase
remark that " the most lasting houses have only
their seasons, more or less, of a certain constitu-
tional strength. They have their spring and
summer sunshine glare, their wane, decline, and
death." Take, for example, the Plantagenets,
the Staffords, and the Nevills, the three most
illustrious names on the Roll of England's No-
bility. What race in Europe surpassed in royal
position, in personal achievement, our Henrys
and our Edwards ? and yet we find the great-
great-grandson of Margaret Plantagenet, daughter
and heiress of George Duke of Clarence, following
the craft of a Cobbler ! at the little town of New-
port in Shropshire, in the year 1637. Besides,
if we were to investigate the fortunes of many of
the inheritors of the royal arms, it would soon be
discovered that

THE DECADENCE OF FAMILIES. 29

" The aspiring blood of Lancaster '
had sunk into the ground. The princely stream
flows at the present time through very humble
veins. Among the lineal descendants of Edmund
of Woodstock, Earl of Kent, sixth son of Edward
L, King of England, entitled to quarter the royal
arms, occur Mr. Joseph Smart, of Hales Owen,
butcher, and Mr. George Wilmot, keeper of the
turnpike gate at Cooper's Bank, near Dudley ;
and among the descendants of Thomas Plantagenet,
Duke of Gloucester, fifth son of Edward III., we
may mention Mr. Stephen James Penny, the late
sexton at St. George's, Hanover Square.

The last male representative of the great Dukes
of Buckingham, Roger Stafford, born at Malpas
in Cheshire, about the year 1572, was refused the
inheritance of his family honours on account of
his poverty, and sunk into utter obscurity. This
unfortunate youth went by the name of Fludd ;
indignant that his patronymic of Stafford should
be associated with his humble lot.

Of the Nevills — the direct heir in the senior
line, Charles, sixth Earl of Westmoreland, lived
to an advanced age in the low countries " meanly
and miserably," and George Nevill, who was cre-
ated Duke of Bedford by King Edward IV., that
he might be of suitable rank to espouse the Lady
Elizabeth Plantagenet, was eventually degraded

30 THE DECADENCE

from all titles and rank, on the ground of indi-
gence.

En passant, the mention of these " men of royal
siege " recalls to mind the family of one who at a
future period ruled where they had ruled. The
Cromwells were of consideration and high county
standing, in Huntingdonshire, seated at the fine
old mansion of Hinchinbroke, and descended in
the female line, from Cromwell, Earl of Essex, of
the time of Henry VIII. Their chief, as well as
many of the family fought manfully under the
royal banner. At the present time, seven Peers
of the realm trace descent from the Lord Pro-
tector, viz., the Earls of Morley, Chichester,
Rothes, Cowper, Clarendon, De Grey, and Ripon,
but, as a contrast to this fair side of the picture,
we must honestly confess, that within a hundred
years after Oliver's death, some of his descendants
were reduced to the depths of poverty, almost
begging their daily bread. It is a singular fact,
that an estate, which was granted to George
Monk, Duke of Albemarle, for restoring the mon-
archy, should, by intermarriages, eventually vest
in the late Oliver Cromwell, Esq., of Cheshunt,
who died in 1821, being then the last direct male
descendant of the Protector.

Such has been the decadence of our Royal
Plantagenets, and the mournful decay of many a

OF FAMILIES. 31

peerage family that " had heen glorious in another
day," This natural decline is the inevitable des-
tiny — sooner or later — of all things human. In
the ranks, too, of the unennobled aristocracy,
Time has effected wondrous changes. The most
stately and gorgeous houses have crumbled under
its withering touch. Let us cast our eye on what
county we please of England, and the same view
will present itself. Few, very few, of those old
historic names that once held paramount sway,
and adorned by their brilliancy a particular loca-
lity, still exist in a male descendant, It has been
asserted, we know not exactly with what truth,
that in Herefordshire, a county peculiarly rich in
ancient families, there are but two or three county
gentlemen who can shew a male descent from the
proprietors recorded in the Visitations. In the
North, these genealogical vieissitudes have been
hastened by the influence of manufacturers' gold,
which has done so much to uproot the old pro-
prietary of the soil, that we marvel how in Lanca-
shire and the West Riding of Yorkshire such
families as Townley, Gerard, Blackburne, Blun-
dell, Trafford, Fairfax, Foljambe, Hamerton, and
Wentworth, " have stood against the waves and
weathers of time." Others, of no less fame and
fortune, have passed altogether away, and others
have dwindled from their proud estate to beggary
and want.

32 THE DECADENCE

The story of the Gargraves is a melancholy
chapter in the romance of real life. For full two
centuries, or more, scarcely a family in Yorkshire
enjoyed a higher position. Its chiefs earned dis-
tinction in peace and war ; one died in France,
Master of the Ordnance to King Henry V.;
another, a soldier too, fell with Salisbury, at the
siege of Orleans ; and a third filled the Speaker's
chair of the House of Commons. What an awful
contrast to this fair picture does the sequel offer.
Thomas Gargrave, the Speaker's eldest son, was
hung at York, for murder ; and his half-brother,
Sir Richard, endured a fate only less miserable.
The splendid estate he inherited he wasted by the
most wanton extravagance, and at length reduced
himself to abject want. " His excesses," says Mr.
Hunter, in his History of Doncaster, " are still,
at the expiration of two centuries, the subject of
village tradition, and his attachment to gaming is
commemorated in an old painting, long preserved
in the neighbouring mansion of Badsworth, in
which he is represented playing at the old game
of Put, the right hand against the left, for the
stake of a cup of ale."

The close of Sir Richard's story is as lamentable
as its course. An utter bankrupt in means and
reputation, he is stated to have been reduced to
travel with the pack-horses to London, and was at
last found dead in an old hostelry ! He had mar-

OF FAMILIES. 33

ried Catherine, sister of Lord Danvers, and by
her left three daughters. Of the descendants of
his brothers, few particulars can be ascertained.
Not many years since, a Mr. Gargrave believed to
be one of them, filled the mean employment of
parish clerk of Kippax.

A similar melancholy narrative applies to ano-
ther great Yorkshire house. Sir William Reresby,
Bart., son and heir of the celebrated author, suc-
ceeded, at the death of his father, in 1689, to the
beautiful estate of Thrybergh, in Yorkshire, where
his ancestors had been seated, uninterruptedly
from the time of the Conquest, and he lived to see
himself denuded of every acre of his broad lands.
Le Neve states, in his MSS. preserved in the
Herald's College, that he became a tapster in the
King's Bench Prison, and was tried and impri-
soned for cheating in 1711. He was alive in 1727,
when Wotton's account of the Baronets was pub-
lished. In that work he is said to be reduced to
a low condition. At length he died in great ob-
scurity, a melancholy instance how low pursuits
and base pleasures may sully the noblest name,
and waste an estate gathered with labour and pre-
served by the care of a race of distinguished pro-
genitors. Gaming was amongst Sir William's
follies — particularly that lowest specimen of the
folly — the fights of game cocks. The tradi-

c 3

34 THE DECADENCE

tion at Thrybergh is (for his name is not quite
forgotten) that the fine estate of Dennaby was
staked and lost on a single main. Sir "William
Reresby was not the only baronet who disgraced
his order at that period. In 1722 Sir Charles
Burton was tried at the Old Bailey for stealing a
seal ; pleaded poverty, but was found guilty,
and sentenced to transportation, which sentence
was afterwards commuted for a milder punish-
ment.

In Ireland the vicissitudes of families have been
the most remarkable. The civil wars of Cromwell
and William III. doomed many of the old native
houses to utter spoilation, and reduced the de-
scendants of royal and noble lineages to the lowest
grade in the social system. Under the frieze
coat of many an humble peasant may flow the
blood of Ireland's ancient kings ; and in the sun-
burnt, starving mendicant, a genealogical enquirer
might perchance discover the representative of the
O'Rorkes, the O'Reillys, the O'Briens, or the
O'Sullivans, of those times —

When her kings, with standard of green unfurl'd,
Led the red -branch knights to danger ; —

Ere the Emerald gem of the western world
Was set in the crown of a stranger.

Sir Francis O'Neill, the sixth Baronet of Clane-
boys, a scion of Ireland's ancient dynasty, lived, a

OP FAMILIES. 35

very poor man, on the estate of the late Lord
Netterville, at Douth, near Drogheda, where he
rented a small farm from his Lordship, at one
fourth its value ; unable, however to pay that,
he was ejected. This unfortunate descendant of
royalty had the patent of Baronetcy in his pos-
session. One of his sons was employed, about
thirty-five years ago, at a small inn near Duleck,
in the capacity of " Boots and Ostler 1 "

Fifty years hence, when the Encumbered
Estates Act shall have worked its course, a future
genealogist may add some curious instances to
those cited.

In Scotland family annals exhibit examples of the
same striking vicissitudes. Fraser of Kirkhill re-
lates that he saw John, Earl of Traquair, the cousin
and courtier of King James VI., " begging in the
streets of Edinburgh in the year 1661." " He
was" (these are Frazer's own words) "in an
antique garb, and wore a broad old hat, short
cloak, and panniers breeches, and I contributed
in my quarters in the Canongate towards his
relief. We gave him a noble, he was standing
with his hat off. The master of Lovat, Cul-
bockie, Glenmoriston, and myself, were there, and
he received the piece of money from my hand as
humbly and thankfully as the poorest supplicant."
Lord Lindsay, in his enchanting volumes, " The

36 THE DECADENCE

Lives of the Lyndsays," gives a pathetic descrip-
tion of the fate of Lady Jean Lindsay, the only
child of the 12th Earl of Crawford, who suc-
ceeded to the title on the death of his father
in 1609, and is known as " the Prodigal Earl."

" Much indeed," proceeds Lord Lindsay, " may
be said in palliation of this nobleman's excesses, —
his life was one of suffering from the cradle to the
tomb. Left motherless at an early age and ne-
glected by his father, (whose suspicious heart may
possibly have wronged his second wife, as he had
previously broken the heart of the bride of his
youth, the fair Lilias Drummond,) the young
Master was left entirely to the care and superin-
tendence of Mr. Peter Nairn, his ' pedagogue,'
whose letters to Edzell and Lord Menmuir from
the University of St. Andrews pourtray most
touchingly the desolation in which they lived. —
' Our letters,' he writes in 1598, ' are not re-
ceived, the bearers boasted and threatened, our
board is not paid in time — our meat therefore is
* panis angustiffi' to us — we are in all men's mouth
for the same, — three years since the Master gat any
clothing, saif one stand (suit) at the King's beand
in our town. I have supplyit thir defects as my
poverty and credit could serve, — there is no hope
of redress but either to steal of the town, or sell
our insight (furniture), or get some extraordinar

OF FAMILIES. 37

help, gif it were possible. Haifing therefore used
your Lordship's mediation, [I] thought guid to
crave your counsel in this straitness — as it were
betwix shame and despair. The Master, beand
now become ane man in stature and knowledge,
takes this heavily but patiently, because he is, for
his strait handling, in small accompt with his
marrows, — yet, praisit be God! above all his equals
in learning. We have usit,' he adds, ' since your
Lordship's beand in St. Andrews, all possible
moyen, in all reverence (as we ought) and humility,'
in dealing with the Earl, ' but little or nothing
inendit.' And an earlier letter mentions the tears
shed by the Master when, after long expectancy,
his father visited the town — and left it without
seeing him. His heart crushed, his self-esteem
wounded, his attempts to win his father's love re-
jected, all the sweet affections of his nature were
turned to gall, his intellect ran to waste, and, on
attaining the independence of manhood, he ga-
thered a band of broken Lindsays around him, and
revenged his childhood's misery upon society. Love
might yet have reclaimed him, but his marriage
proved unfortunate — and a divorce released both
wife and husband from what had become a mere
bond of bitterness. I have little more to relate of him
except the strange circumstances of his latter years.
Reckless and profuse, and alienating the posses-

38 THE DECADENCE

sions of the Earldom in a manner which, however
unjust, could not, it would seem, be legally pre-
vented, a solemn council was held by the family,
who determined to imprison him for life, in order
to prevent further dilapidation ; they accordingly
confined him in Edinburgh Castle, where he spent
his remaining years under surveillance, but acting
in every respect otherwise as a free agent.* Hence
the epithet by which he is frequently distinguished
by contemporary genealogists, of ' Comes Incar-
ceratus,' or the Captive Earl. He died in the
castle, in February, 1621, and was buried in the

* " This singular procedure is related asfollows in an 'Infor-
mation,' or Memorial, by Jean and Margaret Lindsay, daughters
of Sir John Lindsay, K.B., eldest son of Sir Henry Lindsay,
afterwards twelfth Earl of Crawford, ' anent the feuing and
wadsetting" (mortgaging) the lands of Einhaven and Carriston —
Earl David, they say, ' being a great spender his friends took
upon them to put him in the Castle of Edinburgh, and give him
ane provision yearly, all his friends consenting thereto, except Sir
Harry, his uncle, who was our goodsire (grandfather), who was
at London in the mean-time, and how soon he heard of his im-
prisonment, came to Scotland to see what the business meaned;
so the said Earl David, knowing that Sir Harry was his nearest
heir, the said Earl David, having but one daughter, presently
enterit the said Sir Harry in his haill lands, [he] taking the bur-
den of the debt upon him. The said Sir Harry sold Kilfauns and
Charteris Hall, and payit the said debt, &c. Haigh Muniment-
room. — Nevertheless, Earl David remained in duresse the rest of
his life, though executing deeds, and carrying on correspondence,
evidently proving that his confinement was not on account of
mental incapacity."

OF FAMILIES. 39

chapel of Holyrood-house, leaving only one child,
Lady Jean Lindsay, an orphan, destitute and un-
cared for, and fated to still deeper debasement,
having run away with a common ' jockey with the
horn,' or public herald, and lived latterly by men-
dicancy — ' a sturdy beggar,' though mindfull still
of the sphere from which she had fallen, and ' bit-
terly ashamed.' An aged lady related her melan-
choly history to Crawford the antiquary, who
nourished during the early years of last century,
adding that she remembered seeing her begging
when she herself was young. Shortly after the
Restoration, King Charles II. granted her a pen-
sion of one hundred a-year, ' in consideration of
her eminent birth and necessitous condition,' and
this probably secured her comfort during the
evening of her days."

40

THE DREAM OP SIR THOMAS PRENDERGAST,
BART.

Early appointed to a regiment of horse, Thomas
Prendergast, the heir of a distinguished Anglo-
Norman family, long seated at Newcastle, co,
Tipperary, had already risen to the command of a
troop , when the revolution took all chance of pro-
motion away from the Irish Catholics. Ardent
and sanguine in temper, he was persuaded to pro-
mise adhesion to Lord Aylesbury's conspiracy for
the restoration of King James, which was unfor-
tunately altered by some of the inferior leaders
into the Assassination Plot. From such a perver.
sion of the original plans his honourable mind
recoiled with horror; and it is well known to
readers of English history how, when compelled
by religious feeling to place the King upon his
guard, he nevertheless withstood with fortitude
both promises and threats, even when they came
from the mouth of William himself ; absolutely

DREAM OF SIR THOMAS PRENDERGAST. 41

refusing to give the names, or assist in convicting
any of the conspirators, until that friend at whose
solicitations he had become a party to the original
plot, gave information against him. For his con-
duct then, and subsequently, he was warmly praised
in both houses ; and the King having marked his
own sense of it by a grant of one of the forfeited
estates, the Parliament, when subsequently revok-
ing even the grant to the successful De Ginkell,
Earl of Athlone, confirmed that only which was
made to Sir Thomas Prendergast.

His subsequent life was a busy one. In love,
war, and politics, the three main objects of human
ambition, he was alike successful. In Love's gay
realms, he obtained from that gentle god the fair
and well dowered hand of Penelope Cadogan, the
only sister of the gallant General Cadogan, whose
dashing bravery, worthy of his ancient lineage and
descent from Britain's earliest monarchs, subse-
quently won him the Earldom and high commands
which doubly ennobled his later years. In those
bloody but glorious fields which owned Mars as
presiding deity, and which at that period were to
all Europe the only valued school of good breed-
ing, he found himself where early inclination and
education led him. He was again placed on active
service, and of the many achievements which added
glory to the banners of England in Anne's stirring

42 THE DREAM OF

reign, there were but few where his charger was
not foremost in the fight. In politics, also, he per-
formed his part. Returned member for Monaghan
in 1703, on the interest of Lord Cadogan, he at-
tached himself to the party of that nobleman, the
friend of Marlborough, in England — whilst in
matters which only concerned Ireland, he voted
with his illustrious cousin, the great and unfor-
tunate Duke of Ormonde.

The periods when war and politics left' him
leisure for calmer enjoyments he spent in the com-
pany of Love — now in London mixing in the gay
bubble-wafting stream of fashion — now in Ireland
adorning his new properties with woods and gar-
dens, or resting his busied mind amid the time-
honoured towers and groves of Newcastle. Its
proud battlements, the safeguard of his family
for five centuries, looked over the broad expanse
of the lovely Suir, which after leaving Cahir Castle,
the seat of the tragical event in his family, we have
already described, here washed the walls of his an-
cestral residence, on its picturesque way to Clon-
mell and Waterford — towns which had once looked
to the Prendergasts and their kinsmen the De la
Poers, for feudal protection and friendly aid, but
where commerce was already beginning to create
a class hostile to the rough and proud aristocrats
who formerly ruled them. But the Irish towns

SIR THOMAS PRENDEKGAST, BART. 43

still contained many a sturdy retainer whose fathers
had bled for the old Catholic chieftains, in the dis-
astrous wars which may be said to have gone on
without ceasing from the time of Elizabeth to that
of Anne, and who looked with clanish love and
respect upon each son of the house they fought for
of old.

James Cranwell was one of these. Born in
Clonmell, his father's residence was close to old
St. Francis' Abbey ; and though the humble bre-
thren who once inhabited the venerable monastery
had been banished from its now mouldering walls,
yet Catholic devotion still brought many to pray
with sighing among its ruins. Here young Cran-
well read with interest the time-worn epitaphs on
the grey stones which marked the graves of the
bygone Prendergasts ; here he heard his mother
recount with pride the many gallant deeds in which
his father and his grandfather had been the humble
partners of the great lords of Newcastle, whose
territories then extended from Cahir to Cappoquin,
and from Fethard to Clogheen; mingled with the
lands of other powerful Barons, but stoutly de-
fended by the good swords of their owners. In
her son's estimation, they were the first family in
his native land, the great house of Ormonde, the
Lords Palatine of his county, alone excepted ; for
they were almost looked upon as a sovereign race

44 THE DREAM OF

in bold Tipperary. He determined to attach him-
self to one of a name which thus possessed such
strong hereditary claims upon his loyalty, and he
soon prevailed upon Sir Thomas to take him into
his service.

And never was master more faithfully served,
Cranwell lived in an age when the distance between
master and servant was kept with less strictness
than with us in the nineteenth century ; and he
belonged to a country where even now a stranger
is struck with the almost family interest manifested
by dependants in the success or misfortunes of
their superiors in "the great house." And he
fulfilled his various duties with such zealous
honesty, that it was with a heart truly heavy that
Sir Thomas, after he had lived many years in his
service, received the information that his favourite
attendant had been suddenly and dangerously
attacked by illness. Every care that money could
procure, every attention that affection could prompt,
was lavished upon the worthy patient ; but all was
in vain : Death had marked hirn as his own, and a
few brief days' struggle saw him yield up his honest
spirit to the relentless monarch. " How calmly
resigned Cranwell is !" exclaimed Sir Thomas, as
he paced up and down the dying man's room ; " and
yet his call has been very sudden." You and I
have risked a more sudden one before now, Sir

SIR THOMAS PRENDERGAST, BART. 45

Thomas," answered the faithful domestic, " when
we have rushed together past the canon's mouth,
and yet it is not every soldier who is prepared for
death."

Three years passed by — three busy years — dis-
tinguished not so much by the war of words and
parties at home, as by that of monarchs and armies
abroad. The campaigns in Spain, marked alter-
nately by victory and reverse ; those in Flanders,
where the fight of Ramillies in itself was worth a
hundred minor checks, had been brought to a glori-
ous climax by the great battle of Oudenarde, where
Cadogan's brigade, to which Prendergast was at-
tached, bore a prominent part in the fight, carrying
the post of Heynam after a very brilliant contest.
The rest of the campaign, turning mostly upon the
slow success of siege operations, Sir Thomas took
advantage of some changes of the forces actively
employed, to apply for leave to join for a short
time his fair consort at her house in London : a
permission which her brother, so entreated, and
for such a motive, could not refuse. September
was already shedding its autumnal lights about
the foliage which even then covered the banks of
Father Thames, when the returning soldier found
himself gliding along from Greenwich to London,
as fast as the smartest watermen on the river could
make their well-trimmed vessel fly.

46 THE DREAM OF

And now he disembarked at the crowded stairs
— and now rushed along the hurried streets — and
now was clasped in the loving arms of his expect-
ing wife. An evening of anxious and exciting
enquiries, of pleasant anecdotes of the past, and
gay hopes of the future, followed. Sir Thomas
had to recount the dangers and glories of the
unended campaign ; Lady Prendergast, the pro-
gress of the dear little ones, who enlivened the
hours wearied by her lord's absence, with charms
and graces of body and mind.

At length dark night compelled the long sepa-
rated pair to stop, for a few hours, their fond
communings about past and future, and to yield
to sleep their wearied limbs. Hardly had they
retired to rest when the drowsy god plunged them
both in the deepest slumber. The lady dreamt of
her husband and children, of peace abroad and
pleasures at home, of London luxuries, and Irish
improvements. She thought her loved spouse
should never leave her more, but stay where he
could train the mind and curb the spirit of his
handsome and only son, then in his sixth year,
the age of all others when a child is most charm-
ing to its parents.

But Sir Thomas — of what dreamt he? A figure
appeared before him which for many years he had
not seen. He looked and doubted, and looked

SIR THOMAS PRENDERGAST, BART. 47

again ; but could doubt no more. The figure
wore the old livery of the Prendergasts ; it was
James Cranwell. The gallant baronet, who had
never trembled at the battle's loudest roar, felt an
unaccountable dread at seeing again this old and
faithful servant : and he could hardly muster the
words necessary to bid him that welcome which
his heart refused him, and to enquire wherefore he
came. " It is well to be prepared for death, Sir
Thomas Prendergast," was the answer. " You will
die upon this day year." The warning delivered,
the figure vanished ; and when Sir Thomas, shud-
dering, raised himself in his bed, and looking
round, saw the room empty, daylight yet far from
the horizon, and the smouldering embers still red-
dening the grate, he felt it was but a dream — a
singular, but still undoubted dream. Neverthe-
less the circumstance struck him so vividly, that
he made a memorandum in his tablets the follow-
ing morning, stating the warning he had received
— a memorandum found among his papers after
his death ; and in which he professed to " have no
faith in such superstitions."

A few months rolled on, and peace was appa-
rently certain to be concluded. Louis XIV. made
every concession that could reasonably be asked
from a monarch in his position; but the selfishness
of those who commanded the allied forces led them

48 THE DREAM OF

to claim such conditions as they knew would drive
the iron into the aged monarch's soul, and force
him to another struggle. And they succeeded:
the humiliated, but still haughty and powerful
monarch broke off the negociations, and both par-
ties prepared anew to water the plains of Flanders
with their blood. Prendergast was ordered again
to join the division of the allied forces under
Cadogan, but this time he was himself given the
command of a large detachment, with the rank of
Brigadier General.

Tournay was taken after a long and gallant de-
fence, and Mons was threatened. The French
marched to relieve it, and Marlborough, proceed-
ing to support some of the detached portions of
the allied army, suddenly and unexpectedly found
himself opposed to the vast body of men whom
Louis had still been able to bring into the field.
12,000 men were there before him, unprepared for
battle, but formidable from their courage, their
numbers, and their great commanders. It was on
the ninth of September, and whilst Prendergast
was placing his brigade in its proper position, his
sceptical mind could not help feeling satisfaction
at the imminent battle. From the state of both
armies, the contest would doubtless be decided
that day ; it would probably terminate the cam-
paign ; the danger would be over with the fight;

SIR THOMAS PRENDERGAST, BART. 49

and he had that moment remembered that it was
on the tenth of the same month in the previous
year that he had arrived in London, and conse-
quently on the morning of the eleventh he had
received his singular warning. What therefore,
were the feelings which even he could not smother
when it was announced to the army that Marlbo-
rough would make no attack that day! Some
distrust in his own forces made him postpone the
engagement until he received expected reinforce-
ments: and as this delay gave time to the French
to cover their position with redoubts, the result
was to render Malplaquet the most dearly bought
victory ever fought by a British general, the num-
ber of killed having doubled that which fell at
Waterloo.

The tenth passed with none but partial contests ;
and all was preparation for the awful trial of
strength and courage which was to be decided upon
the following day. That the battle would be
bloody all knew: and Prendergastat last felt there
might be truth in the mysterious warning. Whilst
others slept he prepared himself, as best he could,
for meeting him who is Lord also of the battle :
and when the morning light first appeared, strug-
gling through the surrounding fog, he mounted
his favourite charger with the feeling of one who
had bid adieu to all that is dear to him. Wife

vol: i. d

50 THE DREAM OF

children, and father all appeared before his mind;
the latter, then nearly in his hundredth year. On
all he earnestly prayed a blessing ; and then and
from henceforth thought only of his Queen and
his duty.

The fight was long and fierce, the blcod of both
armies fell in torrents, and many of those on either
side most illustrious for command, personal bravery,
and noble descent, swelled the immense list of
victims to the sanguinary furies of the day. Among
the list of the gallant dead drawn up in the British
camp that night was found the name of Brigadier
General Sir Thomas Prendergast !

Our story is ended. But we will add a brief
notice of the Brigadier's children. Sir Thomas,
his only son, was a distinguished member of both
the Irish and English Parliaments : and Postmaster
General in Ireland. He died whilst a patent was
drawing out raising him to the Viscounty of Clon-
mell ; leaving no issue by his wife, Anne, only
daughter and heiress of Sir Hugh Williams, of
Marie, Bart. Of the daughters, Juliana married
Chaworth, sixth Earl of Meath, Anne married
Samuel Hobson, Esq., and her eventual heiress
married Jeffrey Prendergast, Esq., and Elizabeth
married, first, Sir John Dixon Hamon, Bart., and
secondly Chas. Smyth, Esq., M.P., son of the
then Bishop of Limerick. She eventually in-

SIR THOMAS PRENDERGAST, BART 51

herited the Galway estates. But though this
branch of the family is extinct in the male line
the elder branch still flourishes; and Colonel
Charles O'N. Prendergast, of the Scots Fusilier
Guards, an officer who proved at Salamanca and
Vittoria that he was a worthy scion of this time-
honored tree, is the possessor of Newcastle, built
by his direct ancestor six hundred and sixty years
ago.

52

THE TRAGEDIE OF SIR JOHN ELAND OF ELAND.

Chapter I.

In that romantic district of the West Riding of
Yorkshire formerly comprising the extensive Forest
of Hardwyke, stands on a bold eminence, which is
one of the bulwarks of a higher range of hills, the
ancient town of Eland, or, more properly, Ealand.
This denomination is Saxon, and well describes
the situation of the place, meaning "land on the
banks of a river." That some importance was
early attached to this town is clear, from the fact
of its lord having obtained a grant of a free market
in the tenth year of Edward II. Immediately
below the town is the lovely valley of the Calder.
Taking its rise from those bleak and heathy
mountains which separate the counties of Lancaster
and York, this beautiful stream flows through a
series of picturesque vales, till passing under the
arches of Wakefield-bridge, so well known in
history, it hastens to join its waters with the ma-

THE TRAGEDIE OF SIR JOHN ELAND. 53

jestic Humber. A little to the westward of the
town, where the hill declines almost perpendicu-
larly into the vale, a bold rock jutting out abruptly
from the surface, and almost overhanging the river
below, affords one of the most beautiful specimens
of purely English scenery that the eye ever rested
upon. Amid verdant meads and hanging woods,
the stream glides swiftly, though calmly along, here
displaying a broad, bold reach, there narrow, and
deep, and rapid, sweeping round some dark nook,
half hid beneath rocks and overhanging foliage ;
again bending in graceful curves, till it reflects the
arches of Eland Bridge and then dashes over the
rude and massive weir which arrests its waters for
the use of " Ealand Miln," a sight coeval with the
Conquest. Opposite to the town, and on the
northern bank of the river, the land again rises
into lofty slopes, and a large wood skirting the
level margin of the meadows, stretches far to the
westward, exhibiting here and there the grey and
tufted front of many an overhanging rock. On a
fair and sunny opening of this wood stands the
very ancient and timber-built mansion of Eland
Hall, its lawn sloping towards the river, and
adorned with a few decayed oaks of large dimen-
sions. It is the very spot in all the vale that one
would have chosen for the manorial house. The
view from this lawn is peculiar and beautiful*

54 THE TRAGEDIE OF

Opposite, and connected by the bridge (a modern
erection), stands the town, perched on its eminence
like some of the walled cities of foreign lands.
The square tower of its church stands out boldly
pre-eminent, and many old and gabelled buildings
are seen to cluster closely round it. Somewhat
to the left is the broad weir, thrown transversely
across the stream, at the end of which on the op-
posite bank, is the mill, with its usual range of
out-buildings. A century ago, or probably at
a less period, there was no bridge, and the only
mode of communication between the Manor House
and the town was by a range of stepping stones
below the weir, the river in that part, though
broad, being shallow, in consequence of the supply
drained off for the purposes of the mill. Passing
by this building, a winding path up the steep
ascent led to the church and the town.

We have been thus particular in describing the
spot, as it will throw considerable light on the
events we are about to relate. This romantic
locality was, in the fourteenth century, the scene
of a most lamentable feud, strangely indicative of
the unsettled state of society in those days, and it
is the more interesting, as the scene, in most of
its details, may be plainly and distinctly traced at
the present time. There still stands the Hall,
embosomed in its own woods — there the oak, coeval

SIR JOHN ELAND. 55

with the tradition itself — the mill, though rebuilt,
occupies the same sight — Aneley wood, the final
scene of the tragedy, still stretches up the higher
grounds above the town, and the descendants of
the Elands, by the female line, still hold possession
of the Manor. There is an old ballad still extant,
which recounts the particulars of these stirring
events, and is entitled " Historie of Sir John
Eland, of Eland, and his Antagonistes." This
curious document, from which are ample quota-
tions in the following pages, was probably com-
posed sometime after the facts it records, but is
evidently very ancient. That learned and ju-
dicious antiquarian, the Rev. John Watson, is of
opinion, that the said ballad was written for the
use of the minstrels, and was sung or recited at
the entertainments of the gentry of those parts ;
and Brady in his history of the reign of King
Stephen, p. 281, says, that this summary mode of
executing private revenge was imported by the
Normans into England. The family of Eland
was of great antiquity, and had large possessions
in the West Riding of Yorkshire, as also in the
townships of Spotland and Whiteworthe, in Lan-
cashire. They were liberal benefactors to the
great abbey at Whalley. Sir William de Eland
was constable of Nottingham Castle, and was the
same who betrayed Earl Mortimer, by shewing

56 THE TRAGEDIE OF

the secret passage in the rock. In the early part
of the fourteenth century, Sir John was the repre-
sentative of this powerful family, and he resided
at Eland Hall, the seat of his ancestors. In those
awless days, " might was right," and in a district
so remote from the seat of government, it may
fairly be presumed, that each powerful proprietor
' ' did that which was good in his own eyes," un-
checked hy anything but the sense of that spirit
of private vengeance which often pursued their
misdeeds. Spoliation of property, under any
pretence, plausible or not, the tyranny of the
strong over the weak, family feuds on the most
trivial grounds, and that ambition which would
gain its ends by trampling on the fortunes of
others — these were the prevailing errors of the
period of which we speak. And so also sings the
ancient ballad to which we have alluded: —

" For when men live in worldlie wealth,

Full few can have that grace
Long in the same to keep themselves
Contented with their place.

" The squire must needs become a knight,

The knight a lord would be,
Thus shall you see no worldlie wight
Content with his degree."

Tradition hands down that this Sir John de
Eland, was a stern, ambitious man, ever at feud

SIR JOHN ELAND. 57

With his neighbours, and as implacable in his re-
venge as he was altogether reckless in the means
of attaining it. It appears that one Exley,* an
adjoining proprietor, had killed the nephew of Sir
John in a fray, and flying from his vengeance, was
received and sheltered by Sir Robert Beaumont,
of Crossland Hall. By the intervention of friends
however, compensation as usual in those days, was
accepted, and all might have been well, had not
one Lockwood, of Lockwood, renewed the strife,
and involved also Sir Hugh Quarmby, another
neighbouring gentleman, in the quarrel.

Sir John was not a man to be thus provoked
with impunity ; he considered his agreement
cancelled, and terrible were the effects of his
wrath —

" He raised the countrie round about

His friends and tenants all,

And for his purpose picked out

Stout sturdie men and tall.

" To Quarmby Hall they came by night
And there the lord they slew,
At that time Hugh of Quarmby hight,
Before the countrie knew.

•
* The house where this Exley probably dwelt is still standing
in the village of the same name. It is a curious specimen of
the style where security sets at defiance convenience. It consists
of an inner court with a ponderous gateway.

D 3

58 THE TRAGEDIE OF

"ToLockwood then the selfe-same night,

They came, and there they slew
Lockwood of Lockwood, that wily knight
That stirred the strife anew."

" And yet," as saith the tradition, " not sated
with these foul slaughters, they go craftily to
Crossland Hall, there hoping verily to play the
same murderous game as at Quarmby and Lock-
wood. But Sir Robert Beaumont was a brave
man and wary. His hall was ' watered well
about,' and they found to their great discomfiture
that the drawbridge was up, and no forcible en-
trance was to be made therein. Accordingly with evil
intent they hide themselves as best they may, and
waited till the first crimson blush of morning
peeped cheerily over the hill. It was at this
hour of early dawn, when every heart should he
lifted up to the great Source of Light and Life,
that these cruel men, with their hands already
stained with the blood of two brave knights,
peeped forth and saw a servant wench (little wit-
ting what was in store for her master's house)
letting down the drawbridge. She looked about
warily, but seeing no man, tripped lightly over
the moat, and hurried to drive the kine to the
mistall,* which were feeding in the pastures close

* The usual name in that district for the cow-honse or milk-
stall.

SIR JOHN ELAND. 59

bye. She sang a merry stave, and kenned no danger
was at hand — but a suddain shriek rends the air —
turning, she sees armed men crossing the bridge
in haste ; they gain the open porch and next the
hall, and with a savage shout make their way to
the brave knight's chamber. Sir Robert Beaumont
was not a man to quail or flee, and seizing such
weapon as was at hand, he met them at his door,
and made a right good fight, so that at first they
were astonished, and began to retreat into the
hall. And his trusty servants too, that dwelt
beneath his roof, soon gathered together, and a
bloody combat it was like to be ; but numbers
soon prevailed^the serving men were killed, and
the knight was driven back into his chamber,
where his faire ladye hanging upon him, besought
for his life, and placed her precious bodye so as to
shield her bleeding lord. But all in vain, for
faint with loss of blood, they bound his arms, and
heedless of the cries and shrieks of his terrified
ladye, drew him into his own hall, and there cut
off his head.

" See here in what nncertaintie
This wretched world is led :
At night in his prosperitie,
At morning slaine and dead.

" And so after this wicked deed they bethought
to regale themselves. And the cloth was spread,

60 THE TRAGEDIE OF

and the meat was brought, and the cellar furnished
abundance of good wine, and that stern knight,
Sir John Eland, sitting at the head of the table on
the dais, sent for the two sons of the slain Sir
Robert, and when they came ordered them to eat
and drink with them. The younger, who was of
a mild and gentle nature, overcome with fear, did
as he was bidden, but Adam, the elder, looking
angrily at his brother, sturdily refused to eat or
drink with the slayers of his father.

" ' See how this boy,' said Eland, ' see
His father's death can take,
If any be it will be he,

That will revengement take.'

The knight however resolved to forestall this, and
he sought opportunity to cut them off stealthily
when a fit occasion did present itself. Meanwhile
news being carried by a messenger, of Sir John's
determination to attack the family at Crossland
Hall, the Townleys of Townley, and the Breretons
of Brereton, took to horse, and hastened with their
retainers to the succour of Sir Robert Beaumont,
but on reaching Marsden, on the borders of the
counties, another messenger informed them of his
sad end, and they fearing that their force would
be of little avail against the cruel slayer of their
friend, returned sorrowfully home. But Lady
Beaumont stealing away in the dead of the night

SIR JOHN ELAND. 61

from Crossland Hall, in company with her children
committed herself unto the protection of these
her friends, and after sojourning some time at
Townley, took up her residence at Brereton, in
Cheshire, as being most remote from her deadly
foe ; others too, equally enemies of the bloody
knight, resorted thither —

" Lacie and Lockwood were with them
Brought up at Brereton Green,
And Quarmbye, kinsman unto them,
At home must not be seen.

All these as yet boys, were entertained at Brere-
ton and Townley, and were brought up by Lady
Beaumont with a continual sense of the wrong
inflicted by the knight of Eland upon their
father.

" The feats of fence they practised
To wield their weapons well,
Till fifteen years were finished,
And then it so befell."

Chapter II.

" Years passed by, and still the young brood of
Sir John Eland's enemies abode at Brereton Hall.
Of these, the boldest, most froward and reckless,

62 THE TRAGEDIE OF

was young Lockwood of Lockwood, the son of him
who had been so cruelly slain on that fatal night.
As his father stirred up anew the old feud between
the fierce knight of Eland and Exley, and drew
Sir Robert Beaumont, and his neighbour Quarmby
into the quarrel, so he, with like perseverance in
evil, and full of deadly hatred, never ceased to re-
mind his companions of their injuries, and to urge
them to take revenge. The gentle Lady Beau-
mont, spirit-broken by her misfortunes, and fear-
ful of coming evils, would fain have given other
counsel, and bade the young men wait till the
death of the powerful knight, or the offices of
friends might compose these differences, and allow
them to return to their own estates in peace.
But young men aye think themselves wiser than
their elders, and would rather buy their expe-
rience, and hazard a draught themselves at the
bitter cup of human woe. Hugh Quarmby en-
tered heart and soul into Lockwood's devices.
He, too, was a bold and resolute youth, the king
of wrestlers, skilful at the bow, and strong as
Hercules. Adam Beaumont was not a whit be-
hind the other two in skill and bravery ; but he
was of a nobler mind, and kindlier heart, and,
bating the cruel murder of his father, would
have inclined to better courses. He thought it
shame to stay behind wnen his companions were

SIR JOHN ELAND. 63

engaged, and, though, he loved his mother well,
her words of peace fell idly on his ear, and he
was falsely persuaded that honour compelled him
to avenge one crime by the commission of ano-
ther. To these were also joined one Lacy or
Lacie, as the ballad hath already taught us. He
was of the ancient stock of the Lacies of Crom-
wellbotham Hall ; his lands joined the manor of
Eland, and though a kinsman, he too had fled,
having had some dispute with the fierce knight,
who lived there. These four, having one com-
mon cause, held together, firmly linked for good
or evil ; they spent their days in feats of arms,
and oft, at midnight, were planning how they
might best accomplish their purpose ; revenge
themselves upon their enemy, and return to the
homes of their childhood. It was, they knew, no
easy matter, for Sir John Eland was as wily as he
was bold. Quarmby at length grew impatient,
and he said gloomily to his friends, that one must
go into the country, and learn how matters stood ;
who this should be, the lot must tell. It fell on
Adam Beaumont, but Quarmby, who loved the
youth right well, and knew that his mother would
oppose such a risk, at once said he would take his
place, for all his men at Quarmby were leal and
true, and if needs be, they would muster strong
in his defence.

64 THE TRAGEDIE OF

" Hugh Quarmby went, and was absent certain
days, so that his friends wot not what had hap-
pened, but feared he might have fallen into the
toils of that fierce knight; but Lockwood was
moody and sad, and said bitterly that Quarmby
intended ' to bring down the quarry himself,'
meaning thereby that he would seek to avenge
his quarrel with a single hand. At length Quarmby
Was seen again at Brereton, and with him two
men, hight Haigh and Dawson, retainers of his
house, who were witnesses of his father's death,
and eager to join and aid in this dark conspiracy.
With them Was nightly much consultation, and it
was at length agreed that they should return to
Quarmby, and seek out a fitting time and oppor-
tunity for executing their ' deed of vengeance.' "
So far the tradition. We gather from other
sources that Sir John Eland Was sheriff that year,
and that it was his custom to hear and determine
matters appertaining to his office, at various
places within his jurisdiction. It so happened
that on a certain day he gave out he should
" keep the turn" at Brighouse, which is a village
situated on the Calder, about three miles from
Eland Hall ; and it was conjectured that he would
return home from thence. Dawson and Haigh
lost no time in apprising Quarmby of this fact,
and accordingly they received orders to gather

SIR JOHN KLAND. 65

together such of the retainers of the families as
they could rely upon, and to meet them the pre-
vious night in Strangstrighte wood, which is on
the left bank of the river. Here they accordingly
met, and before break of day, passing singly over
the river, and at different places, made their way
to Cromwellbotham Wood, through which the
road ran from Brighouse to Eland Hall. Being
near Lacy's house, they rested and refreshed
themselves there for a few hours in an outbuild-
ing, and then took their station at a spot whence
they could command the road. The place was
well suited to the deed. Lofty banks, covered
with oaks, and patches of underwood, closely
hemmed in the glen, while grey jutting rocks of
sandstone, protruding their bold fronts, or raising
their massive pinnacles aloft, still further increased
the gloom and horror of the place. A small, but
noisy brook fretted in the bottom, amid piles of
disjointed rock, and close to this the road was seen
to wind, sometimes on its very margin, sometimes
many yards above, where the smooth front of the
cliff, protruding to water's edge, forced the road
over the steep ascent. For so dark a purpose, a
fitter place could not be conceived. The men oc-
cupying each side of the glen, easily concealed
themselves in the fissures of the rocks, behind, or
in the hollows of the ancient and decayed oaks, or

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68 THE TRAGEDIE OF

taking to the deep shades of the rocks and woods,
and making the best of his way to a place, where
by agreement, they were to meet again that night.
And the retinue of the proud sheriff, who had
seen him only that self-same day in the seat of
power, and all the vigour of his manly strength,
now found him upon the bare road a stiffened
corse, and conveyed him, on a bier made hastily
of oak boughs, to Eland Hall. And all his friends
and servants resorted thither, and greatly bemoaned
him ; for, though relentless and fierce to his foes,
he was ever generous and kind to those who lived
under him, and shewed himself at all times a
steady and bounteous friend to our Holy Church,
as the Monkes of Whalley can testify right well.

" They tolled the bell, and the mass was said,
And the lady sorely wept her lord ;
' But, mother,' the young heir questioned,
' When may I draw my father's sword ? '

" ' Forbear, my child,' the mother said,
' That sword hath brought us ill ;
Four noble heads are now laid low,
More blood we may not spill,'

" On the sad news of the sheriff's death, all the
country was speedily up, and many marvelled who
the slayers might be, and the friends of the late
Sir John Eland made for many days diligent search
for the murtherers, and would gladly have wreaked

SIR JOHN ELAND. 69

their vengeance upon them. But Beaumont and
his company had hastily fled, and passing over
into Lancashire, had crossed the dangerous sands
in Morecumbe Bay, and hid themselves among the
dark Fells of Furness, where Beaumont had friends.
Here, being in security, they openly ' boasted of
their misdeeds,' and how that they had avenged the
death of their fathers. And, not even now satis-
fied with what they had done, they plotted more
mischief, and they had spies to inform them of all
that passed, and they laid their plans the more
openly, inasmuch as that fearful knight, Sir John,
was now quiet and harmless in his grave.

" Thus sin to sin doth always lead,
As sure as day to night ;
If once the hand is dipped in blood,
The heart is hardened quite.

" The ladye of Eland Hall, however, lived a life
so quiet, and surrounded herself and her family
with so many faithful dependents of her house,
that years passed on, and, as Beaumont and hi s
friends never appeared in the country, it was
thought that the feud was now at an end, and that
nothing further need be feared. The young knight
grew up brave and good, and he lived aye in his
father's halls, and among his father's kin, and he,
too, was a friend to Holy Church, and demeaned
himself in all respects as a good and devout mem-

70 THE TRAGEDIE OF

ber thereof. In his days the Town of Eland did
greatly increase ; he obtained from the king many
privileges and immunities, notwithstanding his
youth, and he gave and confirmed to the church
of Eland for ever, all that close of meadow land
called Langstrakes, together with the croft adjoin-
ing thereto, and the messuage which was anciently
built thereon."

Chapter III.

" ' Vengeance is mine, I will repay,' saith the
Lord. Had these vengeful conspirators taken to
heart and to practice this saying of Holy Writ,
how much evil, misery, and sin, would have been
avoided ? But men blind their eyes to the truth,
when their bad passions are paramount. In our
last chapter we left Adam Beaumont, and his
fierce and relentless company, among the dark
Fells of Furness, where the bleak moors and sa-
vage rocks were in becoming sympathy with their
cruel deeds, and yet more cruel designs. For,
not satisfied with the blood of their powerful and

SIR JOHN ELAND. 71

wicked foe, they thirsted even more for the blood
of his good and knightly son, who was now living
in fancied peace and security in Eland Hall, toge-
ther with his loving wife and darling babes. So
many long years had now passed away, that much
of the former caution was laid aside, and, occa-
sionally, the young knight and his lady would ven-
ture abroad unarmed and unprotected. Quarmby
and Beaumont, by means of their spies, soon heard
of this, and all the ancient hate returned, and also,
that fearful thirst for blood, which had already
brought so much woe to both sides. They ac-
cordingly laid their plans, and, leaving that savage
wilderness, in which they had so long taken refuge,
they descended once more like a black cloud
charged with the thunderbolt, into the fertile
valley, where peaceful Calder winds her beauteous
course.

" Adam of Beaumont then truly,
Laoie and Lockwood eke,
And Quarmbye came to their conntrie,
Their purpose for to seek.

" As if their cruel hearts were hardened, and their
memory and their conscience seared, they did not
scruple to repair again to their haunt in Cromwell-
botham* Wood, and to lie concealed in that very
glen where they had whileholm shed the blood of

* C'romwellbotham means the " foot of the winding spring."

72 THE TRAGEDIE OF

that fierce and puissant knight, Sir John de Eland.
And here, receiving food and sustenance from
Lacie's house, close by, they lay hid till the eve
of Palm Sunday, having spies to keep a close
watch upon the family at Eland Hall, and their
movements. Upon obtaining, therefore, more cer-
tain information on this holy eve (sad time chosen
for such unholy purpose), they stole from their
hiding-places, and ' it being mirke midnight'
made their way to Eland Miln,* which, as
before mentioned, lay on the further bank of
the Calder stream, just below the hill on
which the Town stood, and a short walk from the
old hall, which was on the other bank, somewhat
higher up. Stealthily forcing their way into the
miln, they there did hide themselves till the early
dawn tinged the hills, and the cock crew his shrill
clarion. Little did the miller guess that he had
such unwelcome company so near, and he was up
betimes, and charged his wife to go into the miln,
and bring some meal from the sacks therein. But,
before she could take the moutre, or even she
touched a sack, she was seized, and bound, both
hand and foot, and her mouth was gagged, so that
she lay there as still and quiet as the sacks them-
selves. Now, it so befel, that the miller, being, if
not the better, yet the stronger half, and having

•Mill.

SIR JOHN ELAND. 73

his wife in due and proper subjection, could not
brook this delay, but, as his custom was when
things went wrong, he took his cudgel, determined
to chastise her for her delay. But little did he
wot what was to befall. As he entered the
miln, he was soon felled with his ow 1 cudgel, and,
being also bound fast and gagged, he was laid close
by the side of his loving wife. But while these
things were enacting, we will return for a while,
to take a glimpse within the walls of Eland Hall.
Here the young knight and his fair lady,* were
living in sweet security, loving and beloved, right
dear to all their people, and especially honoured,
and cheerfully obeyed, by all their loyal lieges in
the good town of Eland. Under this, their good
lord, they lived in peace and plenty, and none
could say that he had ever been turned away from
the Hall, without tasting well and heartily of the
hospitable cheer therein. And as he was a kind
lord and master, so was he a right loyal knight, and
to Holy Church, as we have before seen, he was a
great benefactor, as the parson of Eland could
well testify, and the good monks of Whalley Abbey
have fully set forth in their Coucher book. It
was on this eve of Palm Sunday that, while his re-
lentless foes were skulking in the dark hiding-

* She was a daughter of Gilbert de Umfraville.
VOL. I. E

74 THE TRAGEDIE OF

places of Cromwellbotham Wood, that this good
knight retired to rest with his fair wife, and their
lovely habes. There was a storm without; the
casements rattled ; many a gust descended the
wide open chimney, and roared in the old oaks
that sheltered that ancient mansion. Shrieks
seemed to mingle with the blast, and a hollow
moaning ever and anon filled up the pauses of the
storm. At length the knight betook himself to
sleep, but a fearful dream disturbed his rest. He
fancied that the doors opened and shut violently;
the storm raged more and more, and faces of hos-
tile men peeped in upon him, now from the open
door, now through the casements, till at length,
armed men, with sword in hand, surrounded the
bed, grinning horribly, and threatening to slay
him and those so dear to him. Valiant to the
core, the knight started from his bed to grapple
with his foes, and with a shout of defiance, flung
himself upon the floor, where waking, he found it
was all — a dream ! He opened the casement; the
storm was hushed ; not a cloud rode through the
sky: the moon gleamed brightly on the passing
waters of the river, and tipped with silver the
branches of the huge oaks, throwing their dark
shadows athwart the grassy glade.

The knight again retired to rest, but rising early
in the morning was still disturbed in mind, and an

SIR JOHN ELAND. 75

uneasiness that he could not quell dwelt upon his
spirit. Perceiving that all was not well with her
lord, his fair lady tenderly hesought him to reveal
that which had thus ruffled him, and he told her
of the dream that he had dreamed, and of the
storm, and of the sudden ceasing of it when he
looked forth from the casement. And he added
that he feared much that some evil accident was
about to befall either him or his. The lady mused
for awhile, and then bade her lord take courage,
for said she, it is the morn of Palm Sunday, and
to church we must go, as is our wont, and surely
no evil can betide good Christians on such a holy
day, and going forth, too, for so holy a purpose.
The knight wist not what to reply, but being thus
persuaded, prepared to keep his church as was ever
his wont ; and as the sweet bells threw their merry
echoes down the river he left the Hall with his
fair lady by his side, and his young son and heir
closely following with several of his household.
They thus arrived at the river's bank, where a long
weir was carried across transversely to conduct the
waters to the large wheel of the miln. Below this
weir there was a ford, over which was a passage by
large stepping-stones, which road, leading round
the back of the miln, conducted the passenger up
the hill to the church, and also the town. Scarcely
had the knight and his lady reached the river's

e 2

THE TEAGEDIE OF

brink, when a sad and fearful sight met their eyes.
For thus saith the ballad : —

" The drought had made the waters small,

The stakes appeared dry,
The knight, his wife, and servants,

Came down the dam thereby.

" When Adam Beaumont this beheld,
Forth of the miln came he,

His bow in hand with him he held,
And shot at him sharply.

" He hit the knight on the breast-plate,
Whereupon the bolt did glide,

William of Lockwood, wroth thereat,
Said — ' Cousin, you shoot wide.'

" Himself did shoot, and hit the knight,
Who nought was hurt with this,

Whereat the knight, had great delight,
And said to them — ' I wis

" ' If that my father had been clad,
With armour, such certaine,

Your wicked hands escaped he had,
And had not so been slane-

'"Oh! Eland Town, alack,' said he,

' If thou but knew of this,
These foes of mine, full fast would flee,

And of their purpose, miss.'

SIR JOHN ELAND. 77

" William of Lockwood was adread

The town would rise indeed,
He shot the knight quite through the head,

And slew him thus with speed.

" His son and heir was wounded there

But dead he did not fall,
Into the house conveyed he was,

And died in Eland Hall."

Thus far did these vengeful men proceed in this
direful tragedie, but if they thought to escape from
the second misdeed as they did from the first, they
counted their chances ill. The wild beast may
pursue his prey into the very net in which he may
be taken withal.

" The Lord's servants throughout the town

Had cried with might and main —
' Up gentle Yeoman, make your Down,

This day your Lord is slain.' "

And right speedily, and with good heart, did
these loving liegemen sally forth, and they hurried
to the miln and guarded the main road, perchance
the murtherers might pass that way. And seeing
the toils in which they were well-nigh beset, Beau-
mont and his party looked around and had short
time to consider what to do, To loiter there was
certain death.

" By Whittle Lane they took their flight,

And to the old Earth Gate,
They took the wood, as well they might,

And spied a private gate.

78 THE TRAGEDIE OF

" Themselves coming craftily,
To Aneley Wood that way,

The men of Eland manfully
Pursued them that day.

" Whittle, and Smith, and Einrmington,

Bury, with many more,
As brim as hoars they made them bown

Their Lord's enemies to slo.'

" All sorts of men shewed their good will-
Some bows and shafts did bear,

Some brought forth clubs, and rusty bills,
That saw no sun that year."

Like beasts at bay, Beaumont, and Quarmby,
and Lockwood, ere they fgained Aneley Wood,
turned round upon their pursuers, and fought like
men in desperate case. The Eland men pressed
upon them till their shafts being all spent, and
fearing to come to a close fight with such odds
against them, they thought to make good their
retreat into the thick copse of Anneley Wood/But
Quarmby, who was in truth the hardiest of them,
and one who had never ceased stirring up the less
deadly vengeance of his companions, refused " to
turn his face," and was soon mortally wounded by
his foes. And now was shewn a brave spirit that
would have well suited a better cause, and shews
how noble minds may be turned aside by pursuing
evil passions.

SIR JOHN ELAND. 79

" Lockwood he bare him on his back,

And hid him in Annely Wood,
To whom his purse he did betake

Of gold and silver good.

" ' Give place 7 with speed, and fare ye well,
Night shield you from mischief,
If that it otherwise befal,
It would be my great grief.' "

Leaving Quarmby only when the breath was
out of his body, the others well knowing every
nook and corner of the huge wood, avoided the
deadly shafts of their foes for the nonce, but this
second deed of blood was execrated by all men,
and a wretched fate overtook, at the last, both
Beaumont and Lockwood.

" But as for Beaumont and the rest,

They were undone utterlie,
Thus simple virtue is the best,

And chief felicitie."

Adam Beaumont, deprived of his lands, after
lurking in great danger of being seized and
punished, made his escape into foreign parts, be-
came a Knight of Rhodes, and after long and
greatly distinguishing himself, was killed fighting
against the Turks. Lockwood's fate was romantic,
and yet more sad. By this last double murder of
the Knight of Eland and his son, the Manor of
Eland and all the broad lands became the inherit-
ance of the sole surviving child and daughter

80 THE EARL OF ESSEX.

Isabel, who being placed under the guardianship
of Sir John Saville, of Tankersley, afterwards
became his wife, and founded the great and puis-
sant house of Saville, now represented by the
Earls of Scarborough, who still hold the manor.
The advice given by the bard to this Saville, who
married the heiress, will conclude this sad and
fatal tragedie of Sir John Eland of Eland.

" Learn, Saville, here I you beseech,

That in prosperitie,
You be not proud, but mild and meek,

And dwell in charitie.

" For by such means your elders came

To knightly dignitie,
But Eland, he forsook the same,

And came to miserie."

THE EARL OE ESSEX.

During the siege of Rouen in 1591, one of the
officers of the garrison, named the Chevalier Picard,
received a letter from the Earl of Essex, in which
that nobleman told him " that independently of
the cause which he had embraced, he was his
friend, having known him in England with M. de
Marchemont, but in the war he should be very hap py

THE EARL OF ESSEX. 81

to meet him at the head of his troops, lance in
hand." Andre de Brancas de Villars, who com-
manded in Rouen, himself replied, and sent word
to the Earl that he would find the Chevalier Picard
" always ready to meet him hand to hand, or with
any number which might be agreed upon, and that
he would willingly assist in making up the party
of combatants. Essex, who commanded' 4000
infantry and 500 horse sent by Queen Elizabeth
to the assistance of Henri IV., returned the fol-
lowing reply : —

" As to your offer to make up a party for me,
I reply that I command an army in which are
many of the Chevalier Picard's quality, and I am
the lieutenant of an absolute sovereign. But if
you yourself have any desire to fight on horseback
or on foot, armed or en point, I will maintain that
the quarrel of the King is more just than that of
the Ligue, that I am better than you, and that my
mistress is more beautiful than yours. If you do
not like to come alone, I will bring twenty with
me, the worst of whom shall be worthy of a
colonel, or sixty, the lowest of whom shall bear
the rank of captain.

(Signed) "Essex."

Villars instantly wrote the following answer : —
" To come to the subject of your letter, in which
you defy me to combat, you well know that it is

e 3

8g THE EARL OF ESSEX.

not in my power to accept your challenge at
present, and that the business in which I am em-
ployed, deprives me of the liberty of disposing of
myself, but when the Duke de Mayenne shall
come, I accept it willingly, and will fight you on
horseback with the arms to which gentlemen are
accustomed ; not desiring, however, to fail in re-
plying' to the conclusion of your letter, in which
you seek to maintain that you are better than me ;
upon which I will tell you that you have thereby
lied, and will lie whenever you attempt to maintain
it ; as well also you will lie when you say that the
quarrel I sustain in the defence of my religion, is
not better than that of those who endeavour to
destroy it. With respect to the comparison of
your mistress to mine, I am constrained to believe
you are as false on that score as in the other two;
however, that's not an affair which troubles me
much for the present.

(Signed) " Villars."

Although this correspondence created great
excitement at the time, the affair produced no
other result.

83

THE IMPRISONED LADY.

Lady Cathcart was one of the four daughters
of Mr. Malyn, of Southwark and Battersea, in
Surrey. She married four times, but never had
any issue. Her first husband was James Meet,
Esq., of the city of London, Lord of the Manor of
Tewing ; her second, Captain Sabine, younger
brother of General Joseph Sabine, of Quino-hall ;
her third, Charles, eighth Lord Cathcart, of the
kingdom of Scotland, Commander-in-Chief of the
Forces in the West Indies ; and her fourth,*
Hugh Macguire, an officer in the Hungarian
service, for whom she bought a Lieutenant-
Colonel's commission in the British army, and
whom she also survived. She was not encouraged
however, by his treatment, to verify the resolu-
tion, which she inscribed as a poesy on her
wedding-ring : —

" If I survive
I will have five."

* Lady Cathcarfs marriage to Macguire took place
18th May, 1745.

84 THE IMPRISONED LADV.

Her avowed motives for these several en-
gagements were for the first, obedience to her
parents; for the second, money; for the third,
title ; and for the fourth, submission to the fact
that "the devil owed her a grudge, and would
punish her for her sins." In the last union she
met with her match. The Hibernian fortune-
hunter wanted only her money. Soon after their
marriage, she discovered her grievous mistake,
and became alarmed lest the Colonel, who was
desperately in love, not with the widow, but with
the "widow's jointured land," designed to carry
her off, and to get absolute power over all her
property ; to prepare for the worst, her ladyship
plaited some of her jewels in her hair, and quilted
others in her petticoat. Meanwhile the mistress
of the Colonel so far insinuated herself into his
wife's confidence that she learnt where her will
was deposited ; and Macguire getting sight of
it, insisted on an alteration in his favour,
under a threat of instant death. Lady Cath-
cart's apprehensions of the loss of her personal
freedom proved to be not without founda-
tion; one morning, when she and her husband
went out from Tewing to take an airing, she pro-
posed after a time, to return, but he desired to go
a little further. The coachman drove on ; she re-
monstrate d, "they should not be back by dinner-

THE IMPRISONED LADY.. 85

time." " Be not the least uneasy on that account,"
rejoined Macguire, " we do not dine to-day at
Tewing, but at Chester, whither we are journey-
ing." Vain were all the lady's efforts and expostu-
lations. Her sudden disappearance excited the
alarm of her friends, and an attorney was sent in
pursuit, with a writ of habeas corpus or ne exeat
regno. He overtook the travellers at an inn at
Chester, and succeeding in obtaining an interview
with the husband, demanded a sight of Lady
Cathcart. The Colonel skilled in expedients, and
aware that his wife's person was unknown, assured
the attorney that he should see her Ladyship
immediately, and he would find that she was
going to Ireland with her own free consent.
Thereupon Macguire persuaded a woman, whom
he had properly tutored, to personate his wife.
The attorney asked the supposed captive, if
she accompanied Colonel Macguire to Ireland
of her own good will ? " Perfectly so," said
the woman. Astonished at such an answer,
he begged pardon, made a low bow, and set
out again for London. Macguire thought
that possibly Mr. Attorney might recover his
senses, find how he had been deceived, and yet
stop his progress ; and in order to make all safe, he
sent two or three fellows after him, with directions
to plunder him of all he had, particularly of his

86 THE IMPRISONED LADY

papers. They faithfully executed their commis-
sion ; and when the Colonel had the writ in
his possession, he knew that he was safe. He then
took my lady over to Ireland, and kept her there,
a prisoner, locked up in his own house at Tempo,
in Fermanagh, for many years; during which
period he was visited by the neighbouring gentry,
and it was his regular custom at dinner to send his
compliments to Lady Cathcart informing her that
the company had the honour to drink her ladyship's
health, and begging to know whether there was
anything at table that she would like to eat? The
answer was always — "Lady Cathcart's compli-
ments, and she has every thing she wants.'' An in-
stance of honesty in a poor Irishwoman deserves to
be recorded. Lady Cathcart had some remarkably
fine diamonds, which she had concealed from her
husband, and which she was anxious to get out of
the house, lest he should discover them. She had
neither servant nor friend, to whom she could in-
trust them ; but she had observed a beggar,
who used td come to the house — she spoke to her
from the window of the room in which she was
confined — the woman promised to do what she
desired, and Lady Cathcart threw a parcel, con-
taining the jewels, to her. The poor woman carried
them to the person to whom they were directed ;
and several years afterwards when Lady Cathcart

THE IMPRISONED LADY. 87

recovered her liberty, she received her diamonds
safely. At Colonel Macguire's death, which occurred
in 1764, her ladyship was released. When she
was first informed of the fact, she imagined
that the news could not be true, and that it was
told only with an intention of deceiving her. At
the time of her deliverance, she had scarcely clothes
sufficient to cover her ; she wore a red wig, looked
scared, and her understanding seemed stupified :
she said that she scarcely knew one human creature
from another : her imprisonment had lasted above
twenty years. The moment she regained her free-
dom, she hastened to England, to her house at
Tewing, but the tenant, a Mr. Joseph Steele,
refusing to render up possession, Lady Cathcart
had to bring an action of ejectment, attended the
assizes in person, and gained the cause. At
Tewing she continued to reside for the remainder
of her life. The only subsequent notice we find
of her is that, at the age of eighty, she took part in
the gaieties of the Welwyn Assembly, and danced
with the spirit of a girl. She did not die until
1789, when she was in her ninety-eighth year.

In the mansion house at Tempo, now the pro-
perty of Sir James Emmerson Tennent, the room
is still shewn in which Lady Cathcart was impri-
soned.

88

THE BEAUTIFUL MISS AMBROSE.

The Lord Lieutenant's Court in Dublin, now
approaching so nearly to its extinction, was, in
the olden time, — the time of the second and third
Georges, when Chesterfield, Rutland, and Rich-
mond represented Royalty in Ireland, — as at-
tractive and fascinating as any in Europe. The
brief but brilliant administration of the Earl of
Chesterfield, was particularly distinguished. His
Lordship's high character, as a wit, an orator, and
a litterateur, collected the most celebrated men at
his levees, and the fairest ladies at the Castle
drawing rooms,

Of the galaxy of beauty that there shone, Miss
Ambrose was universally allowed to be the
brightest star. She was a Catholic heiress, of very
ancient descent, allied to the best families in Ire-
land, gifted with exquisite beauty, and possessed
of considerable mental acquirements. These at-
tractions soon won the notice of the Viceroy, and
many were the compliments his Lordship paid
with wit and delicacy, to their surpassing excel-

THE BEAUTIFUL MISS AMBROSE. 89

lence. On the 1 st July, it is a custom with the
Irish Protestants to wear orange lilies, in comme-
moration of the Battle of the Boyne, gained on
that day by William of Orange. At one of the balls
given on this anniversary, Miss Ambrose appeared,
with an orange lily in her bosom. The em-
blem immediately caught the Viceroy's eye, and
elicited these extemporary lines ; —

" Say, lovely traitor, where's the jest
Of wearing orange on thy breast,
When that same breast uncover" d shows
The whiteness of the rebel rose ?"

A few days after, a delegation from Drogheda
waited on the Earl, to present the freedom of
their corporation in a gold box. Miss Ambrose
chanced to be present, and, as the offering was
of the finest workmanship, jocosely requested that
His Excellency would give it to her. " Madam,"
replied Chesterfield, "you have too much of my
freedom already." In allusion to the unsettled
state of the Catholics at that period, his Lordship
used to say that, in his estimation, Miss Ambrose
was the most dangerous Papist in Ireland. En-
circled by a crowd of admirers, she had the good
sense, in the very heyday of her bloom, to prefer
the hand of a plain country gentleman, Roger
Palmer, Esq., of Castle Lackin, to all the wealth
and titles that offered. The marriage was thus
announced in the Dublin paper of the day :

90 THE MASTER

" Dublin, 14th Nov., 1750.

" The celebrated Miss Ambrose, of this king-
dom, has, to the much-envied happiness of one,
and the grief of thousands, abdicated her maiden
empire of beauty, and retreated to the Temple of
Hymen. Her husband is Roger Palmer, Esq.,
of Castle Lackin, co. Mayo, M.P."

A few lines will suffice to describe the sequel
of the Irish Beauty's life. By her husband's
elevation to a Baronetcy in 1777, she became
Lady Palmer, and as such died, universally
esteemed. Her last surviving child was the late
Sir William Henry Palmer, Bart., of Palmers-
town and Kenure Park, father of the present Sir
B,oger.

THE MASTER OP BURLEIGH.

Although love has been highly extolled by
rhymers and romancers as a very ennobling pas-
sion, in proof of which the chivalrous times have
been often quoted, there is certainly some small
mistake in the matter ; Venus herself might, we
think, with great propriety be represented like
Janus with two faces. To say the least of it, we
find abundant instances of love being about as
selfish an impulse, and leading to as much evil, as

OF BURLEIGH. 91

any that agitates the human bosom. Jealousy in
its milder forms may not perhaps afford a sufficient
confirmation of our doctrine, but jealousy, when
it becomes outrageous and takes to steel and poi-
son, as we often see it doing, is fairly entitled to
a verdict of guilty upon any and all the counts of
this indictment. " Upon that hint I speak," and
it must go hard indeed if the following tradition,
too well established to admit of doubt, does not
bring with it the proof required. That it is fact,
and no fiction, any one may convince himself, who
will take the trouble of referring to " Maclaurin's
Decisions," and " Rae's History of the Rebellion
against George I."

Robert, the eldest son of the fourth Lord
Balfour of Burleigh, and commonly known as the
Master of Burleigh, had, when a very young man,
formed an attachment for a girl in a low station,
whose name does not appear upon the record, and
whom therefore for the sake of convenience we
shall call Mary. When this came to the ears of
his family they determined to send him abroad, as
the readiest and most effective mode of preventing
him from contracting an alliance with her, and
though in general sufficiently intolerant of all
command, the Master of Burleigh found on this
occasion his interest was too deeply compromised
for him to refuse obedience. He assented there-
fore, although with as little grace as obstinate

92 THE MASTER

tempers usually exhibit when submitting to un-
pleasant propositions.

It was in this state of mind that he paid the
girl a final visit before his departure, to inform
her of his intended journey to the continent, and
to bind her to himself, if possible, by such vows
as she would not be likely to break in a hurry.
The fierceness of his manner, at all times stern and
overbearing, but now wrought even above its usual
pitch, terrified, if it did not persuade her, and she
promised to enter into no engagement during his
absence, however long it might be, but to wait
patiently till time and the course of events should
render him the uncontrolled disposer of his own
actions. That she might the more faithfully
keep this promise, he solemnly assured her, that
if she married, he would infallibly put her hus-
band to death, — " And you know," he added, " I
am a man of my word in such matters." Upon
this understanding they parted, she to return
home, and he to set out upon his journey, which
the old lord resolved should be of some duration,
that the cure might be complete.

" Out of sight, out of mind ," is an old proverb,
and so it proved on this occasion. Robert had
not long quitted the country, before a certain
Henry Stenhouse, a schoolmaster at Inverkeithing,
fell in love with Mary and paid his addresses to
her. His suit met with every encouragement from

OF BURLEIGH. £3

her friends and relations, not only as he was an
eligible match for a girl in her sphere of life, but
because their union was the likeliest way of se-
curing her from what they felt to be the dangerous
attentions of the young Master. Thus favoured
by circumstances, and being, moreover, just the
sort of man to win a young girl's affections, he
finally succeeded in rendering himself so agreeable
to Mary that she consented to marry him, though
her knowledge of the Master's desperate and in-
flexible temper did not leave her without some
apprehensions on his account. All this she frankly
communicated to Stenhouse ; but when did a man
in love ever look to remote consequences ? he
laughed at her fears, declaring he was quite ready
to run that, or any other risk, to gain possession
of so fair a wife ; and such is the waywardness of
the human heart, that his gallantry in braving a
danger which she at least did not consider an
imaginary one, was a strong inducement to her
accepting him for a husband.

The next scene in this tragic drama followed
naturally enough. With Mary's marriage the
grounds for the Master's enforced absence were
removed in the eyes of Lord Balfour, since, let
whatever would happen, the possibility of his son's
contracting a low union was now, and for ever, at
an end. He therefore permitted him to return
home.

94 THE MASTER

The first thing the Master did on coming back
was to enquire after Mary, for it seems that
neither time nor absence had done anything to-
wards abating his passion. He was told that she
had married the schoolmaster of Inverkeithing.
Upon hearing this — it was somewhere about the
9th of April, 1707 — he armed himself, and set
out on horseback for that place, accompanied by
two attendants, and going straight to the school'
demanded to see Mr. Henry Stenhouse. The
latter, who did not as yet know the name or pur-
pose of his visitor, came out without hesitation,
when the latter briefly and sternly explained that
he was Mr. Robert Balfour ; that he understood
Mr. Stenhouse had maligned him, and that in
consequence he had come to challenge him, and
settle the affair upon the spot before they parted.
Stenhouse was more taken by surprise at this
than he ought to have been, considering what
Mary had told him before their marriage. He,
however, endeavoured to appease his antagonist,
protesting his perfect innocence of the offence
charged against him ; he had not, he said, the
remotest knowledge of Mr. Robert or his con-
cerns, that could have led him to the supposed
slander. Such a disclaimer of course availed
nothing when the real ground of dispute was
something very different from what had been
alleged. The Master of Burleigh persisted in his

OF BURLEIGH. 95

demand for an immediate settlement of the affair,
and swore that unless the schoolmaster met him
with fire arms on horseback, he would shoot him
at once without more ceremony, as he would a
mad dog. Stenhouse, who had no cause of anger
against this uncalled-for opponent, was as may
be imagined, most reluctant to peril his life
without a motive. His principles as a Christian
of a somewhat precise order, his habits as a man
that had much more in them of the philosopher
than of the chivalrous knight, were alike alien
from any thing of the kind. He pleaded that it
was hard to make him fight a person he had never
injured, that he had neither horse nor arms, but
was in his dressing gown, having just left the
school-room, and finally, that the whole system
of duelling was quite contrary to his ideas and
even ridiculous in his sphere of life. Robert was
inexorable. He presented a pistol at the school-
master's breast, and, for the last time, gave him
warning, that he must either fight or be shot.
Thus driven into a corner, and in the hope, how-
ever faint, that something might happen to save
him, Stenhouse agreed to accept his adversary's
challenge. At the same moment — and this is the
blackest part of a story already black enough
without any additional shadows — the Master of
Burleigh fired, and lodged a couple of bullets in
the shoulder of his unoffending adversary.

96 THE MASTER

Upon receiving the shot the unhappy man stag-
gered, but did not drop, whereat his opponent
drew another pistol, exclaiming " I have missed
the dog ! " A crowd, however, having instantly
gathered upon the report of the pistol, the Master
of Burleigh, with that natural instinct which never
wholly deserts the bravest or the most ferocious,
began to think of his own safety; he drew his
sword, put spurs to his horse, and rode off at
full gallop, exclaiming, that he might the better
delude the people and turn away pursuit from
himself, " Stop the deserter! stop the deserter!"
After languishing of his wounds for several days,
Henry Stenhouse died, and the Master of Bur-
leigh having been apprehended was put upon his
trial for the murder. A most curious and original
— not to say impudent — defence was set up for
him by the ingenuity of his counsel. It was
pleaded that there was no malice prepense; that
the wound had not been in a mortal place but in
the arm, plainly shewing that the intention had
been to frighten or correct, and not to kill ; and
lastly that the libel — the indictment, according to
the phraseology of English law — did not bear' the
wound was deadly ; on the contrary, it admitted
that the deceased had lived several days after it,
and the prisoner would prove malum regimen and
a fretful temper as the immediate causes of death.
Neither the judge nor the jury could be made to

OF BURLEIGH. 97

understand these nice distinctions, and the Master
was condemned to be beheaded at the Cross of
Edinburgh on the 8th January, 1710, and all
his goods to be escheat.

No one will dispute the justice of this sentence,
for never has a more deliberate murder been com-
mitted, or one that had less to palliate it. The
culprit, however, had the good fortune to escape
out of gaol before the day of execution, disguised
in his sister's clothes, a contrivance so palpable and
clumsy that one is irresistably led to believe there
must have been some connivance on the part of
the gaoler.

From this moment tradition tells nothing of the
master till the end of May 1714, when we find
him at the meeting of Lochmaben, for it seems he
was a staunch Jacobite, and one of the most ' de-
cided opponents to the House of Hanover. " He
and several others," says a historian, "went to the
Cross, where, in a very solemn manner, before
hundreds of witnesses, with drums beating and
colours displayed, they did, upon their knees,
drink their king's health." The Master of Burleigh
began the health with a "God damn them that will
not drink it! " The next year he was openly
engaged in the rebellion, " for which he was at-
tainted by Act of Parliament, and his estate of

VOL. i. f

Missing Page

Missing Page

100 THE 8T. LAWRENCES.

forming the guard, thrust it- into his horse's side.
His example was followed by all the knights except
two, who acted as videttes, and they alone returned
to tell the sad tale that the brave Sir Armoricus,
and his companions, died as became Norman
knights, with their faces to the foemen. The
family name was changed from Tristram to St.
Lawrence on the following occasion. One of the
chiefs of the race commanded an army about to
engage in battle against the Danes on St. Law-
rence's Day. He made a vow to the Saint that if
victorious he would assume the name of St. Law-
rence, and entail it on his posterity. The Danes
fled and the'name was retained.

A long flight of steps at the Castle of Howth
leads from the hall to a chamber, in which is a
picture representing a female figure mounted on a
white horse, in the act of receiving a child from a
peasant. This is supposed to refer to the tradi-
tion of the celebrated Granu Uile, or Grace
O'Malley, who, returning from the Court of Queen
Elizabeth, landed at Howth, and proceeded to the
castle, but found the gates shut, the family having
gone to dinner. Enraged at this utter want of
Irish hospitality, the indignant chieftainess pro-
ceeded to the shore, where the young lord was at
nurse, hurried with him on board, and sailed to
Connaught where her castle stood. An an

THE ST. LAWRENCES. 101

apology being made and promise of future hospi-
tality to all such guests, the child was restored, on
the express stipulation that the gates should be
always thrown open when the family went to
dinner. There is a bed also shewn at Howth
in which King William III. slept. And in the
saloon is a full length of that curious combination
of good and evil — Dean Swift, with the Draper's
Letters in his hand. The notorious Wood is crouch-
ing beside him, and his half-pence are scattered
about.

The antiquity of this family in Ireland may be
judged from the foregoing remarks. The title of
Baron was conferred so far back as 1177, a few
years after the arrival of the English. In 1767
the Barony was merged in the title of Viscount
St. Lawrence, then created Earl of Howth. The
alliances and offices filled by various members of
this noble House would occupy a large space ; the
fifteenth Baron was Lord Chancellor of Ireland
a.d. 1483 ; he married the second daughter of the
Duke of Somerset, which entitles Lord Howth to
claim descent from, 'and to quarter the arms of the
renowned English monarch King Edward III.
The present peer is the 29th in succession from Sir
Armoricus Tristram.

10*

AN IRISH LANDLORD.

The Duke of Devonshire is the present propri-
etor of nearly the whole town of Bandon, co. Cork,
and of an immense tract of the country adjoining,
His grace is, on the whole, one of the hest speci-
mens of the class of absentee landlords. An inci-
dent, illustrating his disposition to do justice,
where he really sees his way in his dealing with
his tenantry, was related to us by a person residing
in the neighbourhood : —

" A tenant of the duke's, named Wilson, received
notice from one of the duke's agents to quit at the
approaching expiry of his lease. Wilson, who
had always paid his rent with punctuality, solicited
a renewal, at whatever rent could be fairly ex-
pected from a stranger. The agent, however, had
destined the farm either for himself or for some
favourite of his. Wilson's entreaties were fruit-
less, and when he found it was impossible to soften

AN IRISH LANDLORD. 103

the obduracy of the man in office, he said to
him:—

'"Well, sir, as I can't have my farm, will your
honour have the goodness, at any rate, to give me
a character that may help me to get a farm some-
where else V

" To this the agent assented with alacrity, as an
easy mode of getting rid of Wilson's importuni-
ties. He gave him a flourishing character for
industry, honesty, and agricultural intelligence.
Wilson no sooner got hold of the document, than
he sailed for London, where, with great difficulty,
he succeeded at last in getting access to the duke.
He stated his own past merits as a tenant, his
claim to a preference, at the same rent any solvent
stranger would be willing to pay. The duke
readily admitted the justice of the claim.

" ' Now, my lord duke,' continued Wilson, ten-
dering to his grace the written certificate of cha-
racter Mr. had given him, 'will you just

look at what your agent himself says about me,
and see whether I am the sort of man he ought to
dispossess.'

" The duke read the paper, and expressed his
great surprise that his agent should contemplate
the ousting of such a valuable tenant. ' I'll tell
you how we will meet him,' continued his grace ;
'he expects you to give up possession on the next

104 AN IRISH LANDLORD.

term day ; now, when he comes to receive it, in-
stead of giving him your farm, give him a letter I
shall put into your hands, strictly commanding him
to grant you a renewal. Meanwhile, be quite

silent on the subject, in order that Mr. may

enjoy all the pleasure of surprise.'

" Wilson kept his counsel until term day, and we
may easily imagine the chagrin of the discomfited
agent, when, instead of the coveted farm, he re-
ceived the duke's letter confirming the possession
of the tenant."

105

THE RADIANT BOY ; AN APPARITION SEEN BY
THE LATE MARQUIS OP LONDONDERRY.

It is now nearly fifty years since the late Lord
Londonderry, (then Viscount Castlereagh) was,
for the first time, on a visit to a gentleman in the
north of Ireland. The mansion was such a one as
spectres are fabled to inhabit. The apartment,
also, which was appropriated to Lord Castlereagh,
was calculated to foster such a tone of feeling,
from its antique appointments ; from the dark and
richly carved panels of its wainscot; from its
yawning width and height of chimney, looking like
the open entrance to a tomb, of which the sur-
rounding ornaments appeared to form the sculp-
tures and entablature ; from the portraits of grim
men and severe-eyed women arrayed in orderly
procession along the walls, and scowling a con-
temptuous enmity against the degenerate invader
of their gloomy bowers and venerable halls ; and
from the vast, dusky, ponderous, and complicated

f 3

106 THE RADIANT BOY.

draperies that concealed the windows, and hung
with the gloomy grandeur of funeral trappings
about the hearse-like piece of furniture that was
destined for his bed.

Lord Castlereagh examined his chamber ; he
made himself acquainted with the forms and faces
of the ancient possessors of the mansion, as they
sat upright in their ebony frames to receive his
salutation ; and then, after dismissing his valet,
he retired to bed. His candles had not long been
extinguished, when he perceived a light gleaming
on the draperies of the lofty canopy over his head.
Conscious that there was no fire in the grate — that
the curtains were closed — that the chamber had
been in perfect darkness but a few minutes before,
he supposed that some intruder must have acci-
dentally entered his apartment; and, turning
hastily round to the side from which the light pro-
ceeded, saw, to his infinite astonishment, not the
form of any human visitor, but the figure of a fair
boy, who seemed to be garmented in rays of mild
and tempered glory, which beamed palely from
his slender form, like the faint light of the declining
moon, and rendered the objects which were nearest
to him dimly and indistinctly visible. The spirit
stood at some short distance from the side of the
bed. Certain that his own faculties were not de-
ceiving him, but suspecting he might be imposed

THE RADIANT BOY.

10T

on by the ingenuity of some of the numerous
guests who were then visiting in the same housej
Lord Castlereagh proceeded towards the figure —
it retreated before him : — as he slowly advanced,
the form with equal paces slowly retired : — it en-
tered the gloomy arch of the capacious chimney,
and then sunk into the earth. Lord Castlereagh
returned to his bed, but not to rest : his mind was
harassed by the consideration of the extraordi-
nary event which had occurred to him. — Was it
real ? — Was it the work of imagination ? — Was it
the result of imposture ? — It was all incomprehen-
sible.

He resolved in the morning not to mention the
appearance till he should have well observed the
manners and countenances of the family. He was
conscious that if any deception had been prac-
tised, its authors would be too delighted with
their success, to conceal the vanity of their triumph.
When the guests assembled at the breakfast-table,
the eye of Lord Castlereagh searched in vain for
those latent smiles — those conscious looks — that
silent ^communication between the parties, by
which the authors and abettors of such domestic
conspiracies are generally betrayed. Every thing
apparently proceeded in its ordinary course : the
conversation flowed rapidly along from the sub-
jects afforded at the moment, without any of the

108 THE RADIANT BOY.

constraint which marks a party intent upon some
secret and more interesting argument, and en-
deavouring to afford an opportunity for its intro-
duction. At last the hero of the tale found him-
self compelled to mention the occurrence of the
night. It was most extraordinary. He feared
that he should not he credited ; and then, after
all due preparation, the story was related. Those
among his auditors who, like himself, were
strangers and visitors in the house, felt certain
Vhat some delusion must have been practised.
The family alone seemed perfectly composed and
calm. At last, the gentleman whom Lord Lon-
donderry was visiting, interrupted their various
surmises on the subject, by saying: " The cir-
cumstance which you have just recounted must
naturally appear very extraordinary to those who
have not long been inmates of my dwelling, and
not conversant with the legends of my family;
and to those who are, the event which has hap-
pened will only serve as the corroboration of an
old tradition that has long been related of the
apartment in which you slept. You have seen
the Radiant Boy. Be content. It is an omen
of prosperous fortunes. I would rather that this
subject should no more be mentioned.'

109

SIR JOHN DINELY, BART.

Among the most important families in Worces-
tershire, the Dinelys of Charlton held a pro-
minent position. Descended, by the female line,
from the Royal House of Plantagenet, and repre-
senting, by male filiation, a time-honoured race,
possessed of extensive estates, and allied to the old
county aristocracy, they continued to flourish in
high repute, until the close of the seventeenth
century, when the last male heir. Sir Edward
Dinely, Knt., died, leaving, by Frances, his wife,
daughter of Lewis Watson, Lord Rockingham, an
only daughter and heir, Eleanor, who married Sir
Edward Goodere, Bart., of Burghope, co. Here-
ford, M.P. Thus the Dinely estates became the
inheritance of her eldest son, Sir John Dinely
Goodere, Bart., of Charlton and Burghope, who
assumed the surname of his maternal ancestors.
For a series of years, this Sir John lived on bad
terms with his younger brother, Captain Samuel

110 SIR JOHN D1NELY, BART.

Goodere, R.N., whom he threatened to disinherit
in favour of his sister's son, John Foote, Esq., of
Truro, elder brother of Samuel Foote, the dra-
matist. This circumstance so alarmed Captain
Goodere, that he formed the resolution of murder-
ing his brother, which dreadful purpose he carried
out on the 17th January, 1741. On that day, a
friend at Bristol, who knew the mortal antipathy
that existed between the brothers, invited them
both to dinner, in the hope of effecting a recon-
ciliation. His efforts seemed to be successful, and
his guests parted in apparent amity. Captain
Goodere had, however, watched his opportunity,
and taken measures to accomplish his purpose.
Several of his crew, placed designedly in the street,
near College Green, seized Sir John as he passed,
and under pretence that he was disordered in his
senses, hurried him by violence to the ship, where
the unfortunate gentleman was strangled by two
sailors, Captain Goodere himself standing sentinel
at the door. Suffice it to add, that the murder
was immediately discovered, and the Captain, who
of course, had succeeded to the baronetcy, was
tried with his two accomplices at Bristol, 26th
March following, found guilty, and executed on
the 15th April. This wretched man (who was
captain of the Ruby, man of war, and had distin-
guished himself in his gallant profession at the

SIR JOHN DINELY, BART. Ill

capture of St. Sebastian, Ferrol, and St. Antonio,)
was succeeded in the title by his elder son, Sir
Edward Dinely Goodere, Bart., who died un-
married in 1761, aged thirty-two, leaving as his
heir, one surviving brother, Sir John Dinely, whose
eccentricities form the subject of our narrative.
The wreck of the family estates which came to
him, he soon dissipated, and in his latter years
became greatly reduced. At length his friendship
with the Pelham family, and the interest of Lord
North, procured for him the pension and situation
of a poor knight of Windsor, in which town he
very orderly resided, and was known by wearing
the Windsor uniform. Platonic gallantry was his
profession, and to shew the system reduced to
practice, he always dwelt by himself, not having a
single servant-maid to wait on him in his solitude.
Yet, with all his oddities, he was particularly
loquacious when abroad, though his discourse was
always overcharged with egotism and affairs of
gallantry. His chief occupation consisted in ad-
vertising for a wife.

In dress, he adhered to one uniform costume, and
was exact to time in every thing. For nearly
thirty years he was known in town on his occasional
visits to the pastry and confectionary shops, where
his assignations to meet the fair objects of his ad-
vertisements were fixed. On these occasions his

112 SIR JOHN DINELY, BART.

figure was truly grotesque. In wet weather he
was mounted on a high pair of pattens. His ac-
coutrements were generally second-hand finery of
a fashion at least a century old, and consisted of a
velvet embroidered waistcoat, satin breeches, silk
stockings, and afull-bottomed wig. Thus adorned,
and not a little inflated with family pride, he seemed
to imagine himself as great as any nobleman in
the land ; but, on the day following, he might he
seen slowly pacing from the chandler's shop near
his country retreat — with a penny loaf in one
pocket, a morsel of butter, a quartern of sugar,
and a farthing candle in the other. Sir John was
in the habit of receiving many answers to his
advertisements, and several whimsical interviews
and ludicrous adventures occurred in consequence.
He has more than once paid his devoirs to one of
his own sex, in female attire. But his passion
for the ladies was not so easily to be allayed ;
he appeared resolved to have a wife ; and his
offers in the Reading Mercury, of 1802, appear
dictated with the same warmth, and under the
very same extravagant ideas, which distinguished
them at an earlier period.

The poor baronet, we are told, once practised
physic, but, in many respects, the Medice cura
teipsum could never be retorted with more propriety
than upon him. Certain it is that Sir John was in

SIR JOHN DINELY, BART. 113

the habit of attending book sales, and always
made large purchases of medical works. Twice
or thrice a year he visited Vauxhall and the
theatres, taking care to apprise the public of his
intention through the medium of the most fashion-
able daily papers. At Vauxhall, he paraded the
most conspicuous parts, and at the theatre, he was
to be found in the front row of the pit ; whenever
it was known that he was to be there, the house
was invariably well attended, especially by fe-
males. While in town, Sir John made a point of
attending the different auctions, to which he was
particularly attached ; but if he bought a cata-
logue, he was sure to make a purchase to
the value of a shilling, to cover the expense.
Lord Fitzwilliam, related to him through the
Rockingham family, ranked among the number of
his benefactors, and made him an allowance of £10
per annum.

It appears that Sir John persevered in his ad-
dresses to the ladies till the very close of his life-
His applications were addressed both to the young
and old.

Those who objected to his age he treated as
envious revilers ; and as to their saying that he
was upwards of fifty, he could refer to his portrait,
or his person, and challenge them to believe it if
they could.

114 SIR JOHN DINELY, BART.

Sir John Dinely lived at "Windsor, in one of the
habitations appropriated to reduced gentlemen of
his description; and in some of his advertise-
ments it appears that he expected the nu-
merous candidates for his hand would pre-
sent themselves individually, or in a body, before
his residence. His fortune (if he could recover it)
he estimated at £300,000. He invited the widow
as well as the blooming maiden of sixteen, to his
longing arms; and addressed them in printed
documents that bear his signature ; and in which
he judiciously enumerates the sums the ladies
must possess.

In his statements, he was always remarked
to expect less property with youth than age or
widowhood, yet he modestly declared, that few
ladies would be eligible that did not possess at
least £1000 a-year, which, he observed, was nothing
compared to the honour his high birth and noble
descent would confer ; the incredulous he referred
to Nash's History of "Worcestershire. As a finish-
ing-stroke to this portrait, we shall present the
reader with three of his latest advertisements —
most of which, if desired, might be found in
" Captain Grosse's Way to Wealth, Honour, and
Riches."

SIR JOHN DINELY, BART. 115

"For a wife.

" As the prospect of my marriage has much in-
creased lately, I am determined to take the hest
means to discover the lady most liberal in her
esteem, by giving her fourteen days more to make
her quickest steps towards matrimony, from the
date of this paper until eleven o'clock the next
morning; and as the contest evidently will be
superb, honourable, sacred, and lawfully affec-
tionate, pray do not let false delicacy interrupt you
in this divine race for my eternal love, and an in-
fant baronet. For 'tis evident I'm sufficiently
young enough for you.

" An eminent attorney here is lately returned
from view of my superb gates before my capital
house, built in the form of the Queen's house. I
have ordered him, or the next eminent attorney
here, who can satisfy you of my possession in my
estate, and every desirable particular concerning
it, to make you the most liberal settlement you can
desire, to the vast extent of £300,000. Where is
your dutiful parents, brothers, or sisters, that has
handed you to my open arms ? Venus, indeed,
with her bow and quiver, did clasp me in her arms
at the late masquerade ; but give me the charming
Venus who is liberal enough to name the time and
place for our marriage, as I am so much at your
ladyship's command."

116 SIR JOHN DINELY, BART.

An Advertisement for a Wife, Reading Mercury,
May 24, 1802.

" Miss in her Teens, — let not this sacred offer
escape your eye ; I now call all qualified ladies,
marriageable, to chocolate at my house every day
at your own hour. With tears in my eyes, I must
tell you that sound reason commands me to give
you but one month's notice before I part with my
chance of an infant baronet for ever : for you may
readily hear that three widows and old maids, all
aged above fifty, near my door, are now pulling
caps for me. Pray, my young charmers, giving
me a fair hearing, do not let your avaricious
guardians unjustly fright you with a false account
of a forfeiture, but let the great Sewell and Rivet's
opinions convince you to the contrary ; and that I
am now in legal possession of these estates, and
with the spirit of an heroine command my £300,000
and rank above half the ladies in our imperial
kingdom. By your ladyship's directing a favour-
able line to me, Sir John Dinely, Baronet, at my
house, in Windsor Castle, your attorney will
satisfy you, that if I live but a month, £11,000
a-year will be your ladyship's for ever."

In the Ipswich Journal, August 21, 1802.
" To the angelic fair of the true English breed :
—worthy notice. Sir John Dinely, of Windsor

SIR JOHN DINLEY, BART. 117

Castle, recommends himself and his ample fortune
to any angelic beauty of good breed, fit to become,
and willing to be, a mother of a noble heir, and
keep up the name of an ancient family, ennobled
by deeds of arms and ancestral renown. Ladies
at a certain period of life need not apply, as heir-
ship is the object of the mutual contract offered
by the ladies' sincere admirer, Sir John Dinely.
Fortune favours the bold. Such ladies as this
advertisement may induce to apply, or send their
agents, (but not servants or matrons,) may direct
to me at the Castle, Windsor. Happiness and
pleasure are agreeable objects, and should be re-
garded as well as honour. The lady who shall thus
become my wife will be a Baronetess, and rank
accordingly as Lady Dinely, of "Windsor. Good-
will and favour to all ladies of Great Britain ; pull
no caps on his account, but favour him with
your smiles, and paeans of pleasure await your

steps."

This unfortunate gentleman, the last male heir
of his family, finished his career in the continued
expectation of forming a connubial connexion with
some lady of property ; the papers announced his
death at Windsor, in May, 1808.

118

THE LEGEND OE CHILLINGTON.

Among the great Norman families that accom-
panied Duke William,

" Who left the name of Conqueror more than King
To his unconquerable dynasty,"

none were more distinguished than the Giffards.
It would appear that this patronymic did not he-
long to the chief of the family, who took his name
from his territorial domain of Bqlebec, but that a
younger son of the house had distinguished him-
self not less in the field than in his own private
conduct; and, while his acts as a general had won
for him from the Duke of Normandy the title of
the Comte de Longueville, his liberality, especially
to the Church, had obtained for him a name
synonymous with that of the " Free-giver." Such
is the result of the best etymological knowledge
we can bring to bear on the name " Giffard," and
this is certain, that the original fief of the family
in Normandy was Bolebec, and that a chieftain

THE LEGEND OF CHILLINGTON. 119

bearing that title came with William to England ;
but it is not less certain that two chieftains of the
family also accompanied the Conqueror, who were
more powerful and more distinguished than even
the head of the clan. One was "Walter, Comte de
Longueville, immediately on the English conquest
created Earl of Buckingham, and freely gifted
with most extensive grants of land, in the county
from which he took his title. The other, Osbert,
was almost equally rewarded by grants in Glou-
cestershire, though no title of nobility was then
conferred upon him.

A fate common to many of the pure Norman
families awaited both branches. The title of
Earl of Bucks only lived in the second generation,
"Walter, the second Earl, died childless, and his
immense possessions descended to the Clares, with
which family his sister had intermarried ; the title
became extinct, and the higher honour which the
second "Walter possessed, of Earl Marshal, was
estranged to descendants of his sister. Meantime,
the Gloucestershire family throve, and in the reign
of Edward I., John Giffard, of Brimsfield, was
summoned to Parliament by writ.

But our story does not require us to trace the
decline and fall of these two great houses; we
only wish to remark here the strangeness of the
fate of the genuine Norman race. It appears

120 THE LEGEND

certain, of all the great names introduced by the
mighty Conqueror into this realm, none have pre-
served their position except those who have united
themselves with the Saxon. The history of the
gradual revival of Saxon influence, after the Con-
quest, has yet to be written, and will be found
full of deep interest ; but all that we do know as-
sures us that, in spite of subjugation apparently
the most perfect, Saxon art'*, Saxon language,
and, above all, Saxon liberty, had never been
thoroughly conquered in this island, and in due
course resumed their proper and necessary domi-
nation.

Thus fared the Giffards. The two great houses
of Buckingham and Brimsfield have had no "local
habitation" for centuries ; but a cadet of the
latter house founded a new domicile, and his de-
scendants dwell on these lands to this day.

When Strongbow made his expedition to Ire-
land, he was accompanied by his relative Peter
GifFard, a cadet of the Giffards of Brimsfield, in
Gloucestershire. He was also accompanied by a
knight of genuine Saxon descent, who had estates
in Staffordshire and Warwickshire. His name
was Corbucin, or Corbucion; for this, like all
early orthographies, is somewhat uncertain. Peter
Gifford distinguished himself in the Irish cam-
paign, and obtained from his general and relative

OF CHILLINGTON 121

a liberal grant of lands in the conquered country :
but Peter Corbucin fell in the strife, and, with
his dying breath, gave to his friend Giffard, the
responsibility of comforting his only surviving re-
lative, his sister Alice. Peter Giffard adminis-
tered the comfort in the most legitimate manner ;
and on his return from the campaign, married his
friend's sister, and sat himself down quietly on
one of her Staffordshire estates, where his direct
descendant still dwells. Thus commenced the
Staffordshire branch of this renowned family, and
without failure of heirs male, from that day to
this, the descendant of Peter Giffard still enjoys
the broad lands of Alice Corbucin, while the
Earls of Buckingham and the Lords Giffard of
Brimsfield, have gone to the land of forgetfulness.
Living, as the Chillington Giffards have done, in
the quiet of their own noble manor, there are
many glorious stories extant which evince the
constant sympathy existing between their neigh-
bours and dependants ; but the brief tale we pro-
pose telling must have its chief interest in the pe-
culiar nature of the circumstances, and in the
universal sympathy which must be felt with one
of the actors.

In the early part of the reign of King Henry
VIII., the head of the house of Chillington was
Sir John Giffard. He held a distinguished po-

VOL. I. g

122 A LEGEND

sition in his time. He represented his county hi
parliament, and was a favourite at court. His
eldest son and heir was knighted in his father's
lifetime, and Sir Thomas represented Stafford-
shire even before his father's death. At the
period to which our story refers, it was one of the
common appendages of a great household to keep
a menagerie of foreign wild beasts. Some noble
acquaintance had made a present to the Lord of
Chillington of a splendid panther ; but we may
suppose there were no efficient means of placing
the handsome but dangerous animal in secure
custody. One fine summer's morning, the alarm
was given at Chillington that the beautiful but
deadly beast was at large, and a levy en masse of
the household ensued. The Knight of Chilling-
ton sallied forth, armed with his powerful cross-
bow, and attended by his son. The ancient man-
sion stood on the exact site of the present house,
one of the most favourable specimens of Sir
John Soane's knowledge of what was comfortable
and convenient, as well as elegant. At that
time, the park stretched far away right and left,
but was somewhat curbed in front by the inter-
vention of some property not belonging to the
family. Now a magnificent oak avenue stretches
out in a direct line of a mile and a quarter from
the portico, descending in its course the sides of

OF CHILLINGTON. 123

a deep valley, where even the sight of the hall is
lost, but re-ascending rapidly to obtain a still
finer view of the house and its surrounding
demesne. The course followed by Sir John
Giffard and his son, on the occasion in question,
was nearly that now taken by the avenue, de-
scending into the valley, through which a small
stream flows ; they were hurried in their ascent
of the opposite bank by distant sounds of dismay,
which could not be mistaken. Speeding with all
possible energy up the steep ascent as it now
exists, the knight became aware, on his arrival on
the top of the slope, of a frightful state of things.
Across the open fields which lay before him, tra-
versed by a road that was indeed public, but not
enclosed, he just espied, as he reached the crown
of the ascent, the dreaded animal he sought, crouch-
ing, in act to spring, on a portion of land standing
somewhat raised, while a fond mother, with a babe
at her breast, was crossing the space in front of
her cottage, screaming in agony, and striving to
seek the refuge of her own door. There was not
a moment to be lost ; and, before the knight of
Chillington had taken a second step on the sum-
mit of the high land, his crossbow bolt was fitted
to the string. At this critical moment — and our
reader must remember, that on such frightful
emergencies it takes many lines to depict the

a 2

124r A LEGEND

action of a moment — at this critical moment the
son, who had accompanied his father up the ascent,
and witnessed his breathless anxiety, breathed in
his ear, in the Norman tongue, which, even at
that late date, was the familiar language of the
family, " Prenez haleine, tirez fort"—" Take
breath, pull strong." The caution was not un-
heeded ; one deep aspiration was sufficient to
strengthen and calm the old knight, and the next
instant the bolt flew at the necessary second. The
alarmed and enraged animal had sprung ; the
fainting and failing mother had espied her danger,
and sunk on the ground, covering her infant trea-
sure with her own body ; but, midway in its
fearful spring, the bolt of the knight pierced the
heart of the infuriated panther, and, instead of
the tearing claws and grinding teeth, a mere
heavy and inanimate lump of flesh fell on the
half-dead woman.

The distance from which this celebrated bolt
was discharged is much exaggerated by the com-
mon legends of the neighbourhood; the general
belief being, that it was shot from the hall to the
well-known spot where the woman fell, being con-
siderably more than a mile ; but, without going
to this extreme, we cannot refuse our belief to the
fact, that the shot was a remarkable one, for two
crests were granted to the family immediately

OF CHILLINGTON. 125

after, one being the knight in the act of drawing
his bow, the other the panther's head, and a motto
was at the same time added to the arms, giving
permanence to the prompt and valuable caution-
ing of the son, " Prenez haleine, tirez fort."

On the spot where the woman, child, and pan-
ther fell — the former two uninjured, the latter
slain — a large wooden cross was erected, which
stands to this day, and is known not only to the
neighbourhood as the locality of this history, but
to persons far and near as "Giffard's Cross."
Near to it stands a modern lodge, and close be-
fore it is the gate to the Chillington avenue. The
cross is a strong and rough monument of oak ;
many a one now stands beside it, and looking
down the magnificent sweep of the avenue on to
the hall, which is distinctly visible a mile and a
quarter off, listens with delightful distrust to the
absurd but earnest fables which are poured into
the stranger's ear by one or other of the neigh-
bouring cottagers.

1:26

A WELCH TRADITION.

Sir Nicholas Kemeys, Bart., of Cefn Mably,
was accounted one of the strongest men of his
day, and a tradition of him corroborative of his
great strength, still exists in Glamorganshire.
The story runs, that one summer evening, as Sir
Nicholas was walking in the Deer Park at Cefn
Mably with some guests, an athletic man, leading
an ass, upon which was his wallet, approached and
respectfully saluting the company, said, he humbly
supposed that the huge gentleman he had the
honour of addressing was the strong Sir Nicholas
Kemeys. The stranger, being answered in the
affirmative, declared himself a noted Cornish
wrestler, who had never been thrown, and that
having heard from a Welshman whom he had met
at Bristol of the great bodily strength of Sir
Nicholas, had made this journey to see his honour,
adding that, if it were not asking too great a
favour, he trusted Sir Nicholas would condescend
to " try a fall " with him. The Baronet, smiling,

A WELCH TRADITION. 127

assented, but advised the Cornishman first to go
to the buttery and get refreshment. The Cornish-
man declined with many thanks, saying he was
quite fresh ; so they fell to wrestling, and in a
moment the Cornishman was thrown upon his
back. The Baronet, assisting him to rise, asked
him if he was now satisfied of his strength. The
reply was, " not unless you throw me over the
park wall ! " The tale continues to say that this
request was readily complied with, when the un-
satisfied wrestler entreated that Sir Nicholas would
throw his ass after him over the wall, which was
accordingly done ! A place is still shewn in the an-
cient park wall, as the scene of the exploit. A fine
picture now at Cefn Mably, in the possession of
Colonel Kemeys Tynte, represents Sir Nicholas
as of great stature and apparent gigantic strength.
He was subsequently killed at Chepstow Castle,
in defending it against the troops of Cromwell,
having slain many of the enemy with his own
hand in the sortie in which he fell.

128

THE SIEGE OF COREE CASTLE, DORSETSHIRE.

'Twas then they raised, 'mid sap and siege,
The banners of their rightful liege

At their She-Captain's call,
Who, miracle of woman kind,
Lent mettle to the meanest hind

That mann'd her castle wall.

That same spirit of chivalry that nerved and
animated the cavaliers of Charles's time, enlisted
in the king's cause the heroism of his lady-sub-
jects, and proved, in many an important instance,
that courage and determination can exist, to the ful-
lest extent, in th e female breast, when great occasions
call forth its energies. The countess of Derby's
defence of Lathom House, and Lady Bankes's of
Corfe Castle, are brilliant cases in point. They both
in the absence of their liege lords, who were, in
person, with the royal forces, "manned their
castle walls/' and held them boldly and success-
fully against " the rebel commons," and both
rendered, by their intrepid daring, essential ser-
vice to their sovereign. Of Lady Bankes's re-

THE SIEGE OF CORFE CASTLE. 129

sistance we have the good fortune to possess the
following contemporaneous narrative, as given in
the "Mercurius Rusticus"of 1646; allowance must
be made for the strong party bias of the writer.

" There is in the Isle of Purbeck a strong
castle, called Corfe Castle seated on a very steep
hill, in the fracture of a hill in the very midst of
it, being eight miles in length, running from the
east end of the peninsula to the west : and though
it stand between the two ends of this fracture, so
that it may seem to lose much advantage of its
natural and artificial strength as commanded from
thence, being in height equal to, if not overlooking
the tops of the highest towers of the castle ; yet
the structure of the castle is so strong, the ascent
so steep, the walls so massy and thick, that it is
one of the most impregnable forts of the kingdom,
and of very great concernment in respect of its
command over the island, and the places about it.
This castle is now the possession and inheritance
of the Right Honourable Sir John Banks, Chief
Justice of the Common Pleas, and one of his
Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council, who,
receiving commands from the King to attend him
at York, in Easter term, 1642, had leave from the
two Houses to obey these commands. After the
unhappy differences between the King and the
two Houses, or rather between the King and the

g3

130 THE SIEGE OF

faction in both Houses grew high, it being ge-
nerally feared that swords would decide the con-
troversy, the Lady Banks, a virtuous and prudent
lady, resolved with her children and family, to
retire to this castle, there to shelter themselves
from the storm which she saw coming, which ac-
cordingly she did. There she and her family
remained in peace all the winter, and a great part
of the spring, until 1643, about which time the
rebels, under the command of Sir Walter Erie,
Sir Thomas Trenchard, and others, had possessed
themselves of Dorchester, Lyme, Melcomhe,
Weymouth, Wareham, and Pool (Portland Castle
being treacherously delivered to the rebels), only
Corfe Castle remaining in obedience to the King :
but the rebels, knowing how much it concerned
them to add this castle to their other garrisons, to
make all the sea-coast wholly for them, and think-
ing it more feasible to gain it by treachery than
open hostility, resolved to lay hold on an oppor-
tunity, to see if they could become masters of it.
" There is an ancient usage that the Major and
Barons (as they call them) of Corfe Castle, ac-
companied by the gentry of the island, have per-
mission from the lord of the castle, on May-day,
to course a stag, which every year is performed
with much solemnity, and great concourse of
people. On this day some troops of horse from

CORFE CASTLE. 131

Dorchester, and other places, came into this
island, intending to find other game than to hunt
the stag, their business being suddenly to surprise
the gentlemen in the hunting, and to take the
castle. The news of their coming dispersed the
hunters, and spoiled the sport for that day, and
made the Lady Banks to give order for the safe
custody of the castle gates, and to k eep them
shut against all comers. The troopers having
missed their prey on the hills (the gentlemen
having withdrawn themselves), some of them came
to the castle under a pretence to see it, but
entrance being denied them, the common soldiers
used threatening language, casting out words im-
plying some intention to take the castle ; but the
commanders, who better knew how to conceal
their resolutions, utterly disavowed any such
thought, denying that they had any such com-
mission ; however, the Lady Banks very wisely,
and like herself, hence took occasion to call in a
guard to assist her, not knowing how soon she
might have occasion to make use of them, it
being now more than probable that the rebels had
a- design upon the castle. The taking in this
guard, as it secured her at home, so it rendered
her suspected abroad : from thenceforward there
was a watchful and vigilant eye to survey all her
actions ; whatsoever she sends out, or sends for

132 THE SIEGE OF

in, is suspected; her ordinary provisions for her
family are by fame multiplied, and reported to
be more than double what indeed they were, as
if she had now an intention to victual and man
the castle against the forces of the two houses of
parliament. Presently, letters are sent from the
committees of Poole to demand the four small
pieces in the castle, and the pretence was, because
the islanders conceived strange jealousies that the
pieces were mounted and put on their carriages.
Hereupon the lady Banks dispatched messengers
tp Dorchester and Poole, to entreat the commis-
sioners that the small pieces might remain in the
castle for her own defence ; and to take away the
ground of the islanders' jealousies, she caused the
pieces to be taken off their carriages again ; here-
upon a promise made, that they should be left to
her possession. But there passed not many days,
before forty seamen, they in the castle not sus-
pecting any such thing) came very early in the
morning to demand the pieces : the lady in person,
early as it was, goes to the gates, and desires to
see their warrant ; they produced one, under the
hands of some of the commissioners ; but instead
of delivering them, though at that time there
were but five men in the castle, yet these five,
assisted by the maid-servants, at their lady's com-
mand, mount these pieces on their carriages again,

CORFE CASTLE. 133

and lading one of them, they gave fire, which
small thunder so affrighted the seamen, that they
all quitted the place and ran away.

" They being gone, by beat of drum she summons
help into the castle, and upon the alarm given, a
very considerable guard of tenants and friends
came in to her assistance, there being withal some
fifty arms brought into the castle from several
parts of the island. This guard was kept in the
castle about a week : during this time, many
threatening letters were sent unto the lady, telling
her what great forces should be sent to fetch them,
if she would not by fair means be persuaded to
deliver them ; and to deprive her of auxiliaries,
all or most of them being neighbours thereabouts,
they threaten, that if they oppose the delivery of
them, they would fire their houses. Presently
their wives come to the castle ; there they weep
and wring their hands, and with clamorous oratory
persuade their husbands to come home, and not by
saving others to expose their own houses to spoil
and ruin ; nay, to reduce the castle into a dis-
tressed condition, they did not only intercept two
hundred weight of powder provided against a
siege, but they interdict them the liberty of com-
mon markets. Proclamation is made at Wareham,
(a market-town hard by), that no beer, beef, or
other provision should be sold to the Lady Banks,

134 THE SIEGE OF

or for her use ; strict watches are set, that no
messenger or intelligence shall pass into, or out of,
the castle. Being thus distressed, all means of
victualling the castle being taken away, and being
but slenderly furnished for a siege, either with
ammunition or with victual, at last they came to
a treaty of composition, of which the result was,
that the Lady Banks should deliver up those four
small pieces, the biggest not carrying above a three
pound bullet, and that the rebels should permit
her to enjoy the castle and arms in it, in peace and
quietness.

" And though this wise lady knew too well to rest
satisfied or secured in these promises, their often
breach of faith having sufficiently instructed her
what she might expect from them, yet she was
glad of this opportunity to strengthen herself by
that means, by which many in the world thought
she had done herself much prejudice; for the rebels
being now possessed of their guns, presumed the
castle to be theirs, as sure as if they had actually
possessed it. Now it was no more but ask and
have. Hereupon they grew remiss in their watches,
negligent in their observations, not heeding what
was brought in, nor taking care, as before, to inter-
cept supplies, which might enable them to hold out
against a siege : and the lady, making good use of
this remissness, laid hold on the present opportu-

COHFE CASTLE. 135

nity, and, as much as the time would permit, fur-
nished the castle with provisions of all sorts. In
this interval there was brought in an hundred and
half of powder, and a quantity of match propor-
tionable ; and understanding that the King's forces,
under the conduct of Prince Maurice and the
Marquess Hertford, were advancing towards Bland-
ford, she, by her messenger, made her address to
them, to signify unto them the present condition
in which they were, the great consequence of the
place, desiring their assistance, and in particular,
that they would be pleased to take into their serious
consideration, to send some commanders thither to
take the charge of the castle. Hereupon they
sent Captain Lawrence, son of Sir Edward Law-
rence, a gentleman of that island, to command in
chief ; but he coming without a commission, could
not command monies or provisions to be brought
in till it was too late. There was likewise in the
castle one Captain Bond, an old soldier, whom I
should deprive of bis due honour not to mention
him, having a share in the honour of this resist-
ance. The first time the rebels faced the castle
they brought a body of between two and three
hundred horse and foot, and two pieces of ordnance,
and from the hills played on the castle, fired four
houses in the town, and then summoned the castle;
but receiving a denial for that time, they left it,

136 THE SIEGE OF

but on the three-and-twentieth of June, the saga-!
cious knight, Sir Walter Earle, that hath the gift
of discerning treasons, and might have made up
his nine-and-thirty treasons, forty, by reckoning
in his own, accompanied by Captain Sydenham,
Captain Henry Jarvis, Captain Skuts, son of
arch-traitor Skuts, of Poole, with a body of
between five and six hundred, came and
possessed themselves of the town, taking the
opportunity of a misty morning, that they might
find no resistance from the castle. They brought
with them to the siege a demi-canon, a culverin,
and two sacres ; with these, and their small shot,
they played on the castle on all quarters of it, with
good observation of advantages, making their
battery strongest where they thought the castle
weakest ; and to bind the soldiers by tie of con"
science to an eager prosecution of the siege, they
administer them an oath, and mutually bind them-
selves to most unchristian resolutions, that if they
found the defendants hesitate not to yield, they
would maintain the siege to victory, and then
deny quarter unto all, killing without mercy, men,
women, and children. As to bring on their own
soldiers, they abused them with falsehoods, telling
them, that the castle stood in a level, yet with
good advantages of approach ; that there were but
forty men in the castle, whereof twenty were for
them; that there was rich booty, and the like;

CORFE CASTLE. \gi

so, during the siege, they used all hase, unworthy
means, to corrupt the defendants to betray the
castle into their hands : the better sort they endea-
voured to corrupt with bribes ; to the rest they
offer double pay, and the whole plunder of the
castle. When all these arts took no effect, then
they fall to stratagem and engines. To make
their approaches to the wall with more safety, they
make two engines; one they call the sow, the
other the boar, being made with boards, lined with
wool to dead the shot. The first that moved for-
ward was the sow ; but not being musket proof,
she cast nine of eleven of her farrows ; for the
musketiers from the castle were so good marksmen
at their legs, the only part of all their bodies left
without defence, that nine ran away, as well as
their battered and broken legs would give them
leave; and of the two which knew neither how to
run away, nor well to stay, for fear one was slain.
The boar, of the two (a man would think) the
valianter creature, seeing the ill success of the sow
to cast her litter before her time, durst not
advance. The most advantageous part for their
batteries was the church, which they, without fear
of profanation, used, not only as their rampart, but
their rendezvous; of the surplice they made two
shirts for two soldiers; they broke down the organs,
and made the pipes serve for cases to hold their

138 THE SIEGE OF

powder and shot; and not being furnished with
musket bullets, they cut off the lead of the church,
and rolled it up, and shot it without ever casting
it in a mould. Sir Walter and the commander
were earnest to press forward the soldiers; but as
prodigal as they were of the blood of their common
soldiers, they were sparing enough of their own.
It was a general observation, that valiant Sir
"Walter never willingly exposed himself to any
hazard, for being by chance endangered with a
bullet, shot through his coat, afterwards he put on
a bear's skin; and to the eternal honour of this
knight's valor be it recorded, for fear of musket
shot (for other they had none), he was seen to
creep on all four, on the sides of the hill, to keep
himself out of danger. This base cowardice in the
assailant added courage and resolution to the de-
fendants; therefore not compelled by want, but
rather to brave the rebels, they sallied out, and
brought in eight cows and a bull into the castle,
without the loss of a man, or a man wounded. At
another time, five boys fetched in four cows.
They that stood on the hills, called to one in a
house in the valley, crying, " Shoot, Anthony ;
but Anthony thought it good to sleep in a whole
skin, and durst not look out, so that afterwards it
grew into a proverbial jeer, from the defendants to
the assailants, "Shoot, Anthony." The rebels

CORFE CASTLE. 139

having spent much time and ammunition, and
some men, and yet being as far from hopes of
taking the castle as the first day they came thither ;
at last, the Earl of Warwick sends them a supply
of an hundred and fifty mariners, with several
cart-loads of petars, granadoes, and other warlike
provision, with scaling ladders, to assault the castle
by scaladoe. They make large offers to him that
should first scale the wall; twenty pounds to the
first, and so, by descending sums, a reward to the
twentieth; but all this could not prevail with
these silly wretches, who were brought thither, as
themselves confessed, like sheep to the slaughter,
some of them having but exchanged the manner
of their death, the halter for the bullet ; having
taken them out of gaols. One of them being
taken prisoner, had letters testimonial in his hand
whence he came ; the letters, I mean, when he was
burnt for a felon, being very visible to the be-
holders ; but they found that persuasion could not
prevail with such abject, low-spirited men. The
commanders resolve on another course, which was
to make them drunk, knowing that drunkenness
makes some men fight like lions, that being sober,
would run away like hares. To this purpose they
fill them with strong waters, even to madness, and
ready they are now for any design : and for fear
Sir Walter should be valiant against his will, like

140 THE SIEGE OF

Caesar he was the only man almost that came sober
to the assault : an imitation of the Turkish practice-
for certainly there can he nothing of Christianity
in it, to send poor souls to God's judgment seat,
in the very act of two grievous sins, rebellion and
drunkenness ; who to stupify their soldiers, and
make them insensible of their dangers, give them
opium. Being now armed with drink, they resolve
to storm the castle on all sides, and apply their
scaling-ladders, it being ordered by the leaders (if
I may without solecism call them so, that stood
behind, and did not so much as follow), that when
twenty were entered, they should give a watch-
word to the rest, and that was Old "Wat, a word
ill chosen by Sir Watt Earle; and, considering
the business in hand, little better than ominous ;
for if I be not deceived, the hunters that beat
bushes for the fearful, timorous hare, call him
Old Watt. Being now pot-valiant, and possessed
with a borrowed courage, which was to evaporate
in sleep, they divide forces into two parties,
whereof one assaults the middle ward, defended
by valiant Captain Lawrence, and the greater part
of the soldiers : the other assault the upper ward,
which the Lady Banks (to her eternal honour be
it spoken), with her daughters, women, and five
soldiers, undertook to make good against the
rebels, and did bravely perform what she under-

CORFE CASTLE. 141

took ; for by heaving over stones, and hot embers,
they repelled the rebels, and kept them from
climbing their ladders, thence to throw in that
wild-fire, which every rebel had ready in his hand.
Being repelled, and having in this siege and this
assault lost and hurt an hundred men, old Sir
Watt, hearing that the King's forces were advanced,
cried, and ran away crying, leaving Sydenham to
command in chief, to bring off the ordnance,
ammunition, and the remainder of the army, who,
afraid to appear abroad, kept sanctuary in the
church till night, meaning to sup, and run away by
star-light : but supper being ready, and set on the
table, alarm was given that the King's forces were
coming. This news took away Sydenham's
stomach ; all this provision was but messes of
meat set before the sepulchres of the dead. He
leaves his artillery, ammunition, and (which with
these men is something) a good supper, and ran
away to take boat for Poole, leaving likewise at
the shore about an hundred horse to the next
takers, which next day proved good prize to the
soldiers of the castle. Thus, after six weeks
strict siege, this castle, the desire of the rebels,
the tears of old Sir Watt, and the key of those
parts, by the loyalty and brave resolution of this
honourable lady, the valour of Captain Lawrance,
and some eighty soldiers, (by the loss only of two

142 PEMBROKE AND WHARTON.

men), was delivered from the bloody intentions of
these merciless rebels, on the 4th of August, 1643."
The maiden name of Lady Bankes, the heroic
defender, was Mary Hawtrey, only daughter of
Robert Hawtrey, Esq., of Riselip. From her
descends the present family of Bankes, of Kings-
ton Hall and Corfe Castle.

PEMBROKE AND WHARTON.

The name of Pembroke, like the scutcheons aiid
monuments in some time-honoured cathedral, can-
not fail to awaken a thousand glorious recollections
in the bosoms of all who are but tolerably read in
English chronicle. Sound it, and no trumpet of
ancient or modern chivalry would peal a higher
war-note. It is almost superfluous to repeat that
this is the family of which it has been so finely said
that " all the men were brave, and all the women
chaste ;" and what nobler record was ever engraved
upon the tomb of departed greatness ? Yet the
worth of this illustrious house stands upon a surer
base than monument of stone, or brass inscription,

PEMBROKE AND WHARTON. 143

for stone will moulder, and characters though

written on brass may become illegible, but when

will time be able to efface from memory Ben

Jonson's exquisite epitaph upon that Countess of

Pembroke, for whom Sir Philip Sidney wrote his

Arcadia, and who died at a ripe old age in 1621 ?

" Underneath this sable herse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother;
Death ! ere thou hast slain another,
Learn' d, and fair, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee."

The hero of our present narrative was the
son of the lady so celebrated in the above epi-
taph by "rugged Ben" — rugged indeed! if the
writer of such lines deserves to be called rugged,
one would like to be told what poet was ever
smooth. But leaving this knotty point to the
critics, we must preface our story by observing
that its outlines are strictly taken from a letter of
Sir Thomas Coke's to the Countess of Shrewsbury
preserved in the Talbot papers. Very few liberties
have been taken with the original beyond reducing
it from the epistolary form to that of narrative,
and throwing in such few lights and shades as
seemed indispensable to the completion of the
picture. Not a fact, nor a single word that is said
to have been uttered by the parties at the time, has
been in the slightest degree altered.

144 PEMBROKE AND WHARTON.

It fell out one evening that Lord Pembroke was
playing at cards with Sir George Wharton, the
eldest son of Philip, third Lord Wharton, a young
gentleman of whom we should have formed no very
exalted notion but for this intimacy. Some dis-
pute arose with regard to the game, in the course
of which Sir George evinced so much bad temper,
that his lordship thought fit to decline playing
with him any longer.

" Sir George," he said, " I have loved you long,
and desire still to do so ; but by your manner in
playing you lay it upon me either to leave to love
you, or to leave to play with you; wherefore
choosing to love you still, I will never play with
you more."

The business thus ended to all outward appear-
ance for the present, but it seems to have rankled
deeply in the mind of him, who, fairly speaking,
must be considered the aggressor.

The next day they were both out hunting with
the king, when Sir George suddenly came up with
the earl's page as he was galloping after his master,
and lashed him over the face with his rod. The
boy naturally informed his master of the way in
which he had been handled, and his lordship upon
a strict examination finding he had done nothing
to provoke it, rode up to Sir George and demanded
the reason of such conduct.

PEMBROKE AND WHARTON. 145

" I meant nothing towards your lordship," he
replied.

" I ask not that," said the earl, " but what the
cause was why you did strike the boy."

" I did not strike him," answered Sir George.

" Then I am satisfied," replied Pembroke.

" God's blood ! " exclaimed the knight, " I say
it not to satisfy you."

" But, sir, whoso striketh my boy without cause
shall give me an account of it."

" You are a fool," said Sir George.

" You lie in your throat," retorted the earl, now
fully incensed ; but the Duke of Lennox, the Earl
of Mar, and others coming up, the conversation
was broken off for the moment, and Pembroke rode
off with them to rejoin the hunt.

Wharton brooded over his imaginary wrongs for
a few moments in sullen silence, when unable
any longer to restrain himself he dashed after
the earl at full gallop. He was seen, and his
intention perfectly understood by Lord Mont-
gomery, who immediately cried out, " Brother
take heed: you will be stricken." The earl
instantly turned round at the warning, and dealt
his antagonist so hearty a buffet in the face tbat
he nearly fell back on the horse's crupper. But
again the presence of so many strangers prevented
the affair from coming to a final issue.

vol. i. H

H7

QTJEEN ANNE'S GREAT GRANDMOTHER.

It was a fine April day — for the English
almanack many years ago had a month called
April, a beautiful mixture of rain and sunshine —
grates veris vices — when a handsome but barefooted
young girl might be seen on her way to London.
She had been journeying since the early morning,
and it was now mid-day when she left the highway
to rest herself on a patch of heath which skirted
it, and which had the farther temptation of a pond
of clear bright water, collected in one of the gravel-
pits. The sight, alone, after the dusty road, was
in itself refreshing, for the rains had fallen only
the day before, and the pool in consequence was
well-nigh transparent. With this water for a
looking-glass, she began arranging her hair and
dress to the best of her power, with that instinctive
regard to personal appearance which so seldom
deserts a beauty, even in the humblest walks of

h 2

146 PEMBROKE AND WHARTON.

When the stag was killed in Bagshot town, Sir
George took the opportunity to deliver a written
challenge to the earl, who soon afterwards sent
him the measure of his sword by Sir John Lee.
Before, however the affair could be brought to a
bloody arbitrement it came to the ears of King
James, and he being constitutionally averse to
everything in the shape of a broil, immediately
commanded the belligerents to his presence. With
some ado, and by the help of Touchstone's if, he
contrived to patch up a peace between them —
"If" said the earl, " Sir George will confess that
he did not intend to offend me at the time, I will
acknowledge that I am sorry I have stricken hiin."

As Touchstone sagely remarks, " your if is the
only peace-maker ; much virtue in if.''

But although Wharton thus escaped for the
present, it was written in the book of fate that he
should not die in his bed. In the November of
the following year he was slain in a duel, upon a
trifling punctilio, by his friend, Sir James Stuart,
the Master of Blantyre, who himself fell mortally
wounded at the same time.

147

QUEEN ANNE'S GEEAT GRANDMOTHER.

It was a fine April day — for the English
almanack many years ago had a month called
April, a beautiful mixture of rain and sunshine —
grata veris vices — when a handsome but barefooted
young girl might be seen on her way to London.
She had been journeying since the early morning,
and it was now mid-day when she left the highway
to rest herself on a patch of heath which skirted
it, and which had the farther temptation of a pond
of clear bright water, collected in one of the gravel-
pits. The sight, alone, after the dusty road, was
in itself refreshing, for the rains had fallen only
the day before, and the pool in consequence was
well-nigh transparent. With this water for a
looking-glass, she began arranging her hair and
dress to the best of her power, with that instinctive
regard to personal appearance which so seldom
deserts a beauty, even in the humblest walks of

h 2

150 QUEEN ANNE'S

offer, as may be supposed, was readily accepted,
and Anne was fairly enlisted in the service of the
Blue Dragon.

Amongst the numbers who were attracted to
this Dragon's den by the excellence of the cheer,
or the merry mood of the landlord, was a certain
rich brewer, whose name the chroniclers have
most unaccountably forgotten to record. Being
still unmarried, and, though wealthy, of no very
refined habits, he was wont to pass his evenings
here with surprising regularity ; in fact, it formed
his only relaxation after the fatigues of business,
and he often protested, and even swore upon
occasion, that of all his acquaintance Master
Jorum was the man most after his own heart. "I
don't know how it is," he would say, " though
Jorum has all his ale from my brewery, yet some-
how or another the liquor tastes twice as well at
the bonny Blue Dragon than when it comes straight
from my cellar. I have heard folks say that your
sherris improves by a voyage to hot parts, and I
suppose it's the same with my ale ; it ripens in its
journey from my house to Jorum's."

The brewer was from the first mightily taken
with Anne's appearance, but being a prudent man
he would not venture upon so bold a step as a
matrimonial proposition till he knew a little more.
Every evening for three long trial-months his first

GREAT GRANDMOTHER. 151

enquiry upon entering the den of the Blue Dragon
was, " Jorum, how does Anne get on ? " — and that
answer being always satisfactory, and confirmed
moreover by his own observation, at the end of that
time he thought he might venture to marry her.

The humble pot-girl had thus mounted the first
round of Fortune's ladder. She now enjoyed all
the comforts of affluence, and what may seem sur-
prising, she not only rose up to the level of her new
condition, but even went beyond it, so that in a
short time she seemed rather to have descended from
her proper sphere in marrying the brewer, than to
have been elevated by him. Nature had evidently
intended her for a lady, and Fortune now seemed
resolved that such good intentions should not be
disappointed.

It was not long before the honest brewer took
it into his head to die, leaving her possessed not
only of independence, but of considerable wealth.
It was therefore not at all wonderful that she met
with many suitors, rich and handsome young
widows being always at a premium in the matri-
monial market. Amongst the rest came Sir
Thomas Aylesbury, a staunch friend to the throne,
the inheritor of considerable landed property in
the county of Buckingham, and some time Master
of the Requests and of the Mint. Such a man
was not likely to be an unsuccessful wooer, and
few will be surprised upon being told that, in a

152 QUEEN ANNE'S

short time he carried off the widow from all
competitors. Here, then, Anne had mounted the
second round of Fortune's ladder, and to her credit
it must be recorded of her, that she never allowed
herself to be dazzled for a moment by the height
thus attained, but evinced her usual calmness and
sagacity in this exalted situation.

Years had passed on, when some dispute arose—
it is never too late or too early for law disputes —
about the property of her first husband, the brewer.
This made it requisite for her to have recourse to
legal advice and assistance, and chance so deter-
mined it that she was recommended to a young
barrister of Lincoln's Inn, who was thought by
some to give a fair promise of rising one day to
eminence in his profession. This young man, of
whom a few more sagacious spirits ventured to
predict such favourable things, but who was little
known in general, was Edward Hyde, the future
historian of the great civil war, and the Lord High
Chancellor of England that was to be, after a series
of events which still strike us as being amongst
the most wonderful recorded in English chronicle.
The business of the brewer's relict being of a com-
plicated nature, and protracted after the usual
fashion of all law proceedings, it made many visits
requisite to her legal adviser, in the course of
which she was often accompanied by her daughter
Frances, with whom the young barrister incon-

GREAT GRANDMOTHER. 153

tinently fell in'love. The young lady's affections
were quickly won, and there were many points in
his favour with her parents, though he was defi-
cient in the grand requisite of fortune ; to make
some amends for this he was the nephew of the
celebrated Sir Nicholas Hyde, was fast rising to emi-
nence in his profession, and could plead the same
political opinions as the very loyal and devoted Sir
Thomas, although he did not as yet carry them to
the same excess ; at all events the knight's consent
to their union must have been obtained, for we
hereafter find him bequeathing all his property to
his daughter.

Troubled times now came on. The king raised
the standard of civil war at Nottingham, where he
was speedily joined by Sir Thomas, who rendered
good service to the royal cause, and in consequence
was set down by the Parliamentarians in the roll
of inveterate malignants. His hall in Bucking-
hamshire was burnt, and after many hair-breadth
escapes, upon the execution of Charles, he fled,
first, to Antwerp, and afterwards to Breda, where
he died, at the advanced age of eigthty-one, in the
year 1657. Having thus followed the old gentle-
man to his grave, we return to his descendants,
supposing always this Sir Thomas was really the
father-in-law of Hyde, and that there was no other
knight or baronet of the same name. There is

H 3

154 QUEEN ANNE'S

some mystery in the matter, which the young
counsellor himself was at no pains to clear up ; he
simply states in his autobiography, that he married
the daughter of Sir Thomas Aylesbury, who suc-
ceeded to her father's estates.

For about two years after the death of Charles
the First, Hyde remained in the island of Jersey,
where he amused himself with composing the great
history, which has done more towards making him
known to us than all his services in the royal cause,
or than even his subsequent alliance with the
House of Stuart. How he afterwards exerted
himself in bringing about the Restoration, and
rose to the highest dignities of the state, belongs
to another chapter, and needs not to be recorded
in this place. It is sufficient to observe, that he
became Lord Chancellor, in which situation, not-
withstanding his eminent abilities, he contrived to
make himself unpopular with all parties, and even
to lose the favour of the king, whom he had served
with so much zeal and talent. The fact is he was
too austere and unbending to be a favourite,
especially in a court like that of Charles the
Second, which not a little resembled that of
Milton's enchanter, Comus.

It was now that the king's brother, James, fell
in love with Anne Hyde ; his first effort was to
seduce her ; failing in that, he contracted a private

GREAT GRANDMOTHER. 155

marriage with her. Of course such an event could
not be long kept secret, and on coming to the
Chancellor's ears greatly excited his indignation.
With more loyalty than paternal regard, and
perhaps with more selfishness than either, he
strongly urged the king to commit his own daughter
to the Tower, but Charles who was less sensitive
about the royal dignity than his Chancellor, be-
haved with great justice and propriety in the
matter ; he forgave the young lady's indiscretion,
used his best influence to soften the resentment
of the queen mother, and compelled James to
acknowledge the wife whom he had basely denied
and even slandered.

Anne was now publicly received as Duchess of
York. She gave birth to two children, Mary and
Anne, and although she herself never had the
good or ill fortune to share the crown of England,
which in due time devolved to her husband, yet
both her daughters in succession attained that
honour. In this way was a brewer's wife, who
had travelled barefooted to London, the grand-
mother of Queen Anne.

Such is the popular tradition that has been very
generally received with little doubt or hesitation.
Much of it, however, was in all probability mere
slander, invented by the numerous enemies whom
Clarendon had provoked by his austerity no less

156 THE BYRON FAMILY.

than by his political conduct, and who finally
succeeded in driving him into unmerited exile.
There are no proofs, so far as we can see, of the
low origin of his mother-in-law — none at least
upon which a sober historian would choose to rely ;
at the same time it must be candidly admitted, that
there is no direct or positive evidence to disprove
that a brewer's wife was Queen Anne's Great
Grandmother.

THE BYRON FAMILY.

The following pleasing anecdote, told of the
Byron family upon unquestionable authority, will
hardly be without interest to most readers. Sir
John Byron, who flourished in the early part of
the reign of Elizabeth, had two sons, Richard and
John. The elder married against the wishes of
his parents, and although the object of his choice
was virtuous, beautiful, and accomplished, she was
the daughter of a private gentleman only, and her
good qualities availed her little in the scale against
paternal pride and ambition. Sir John, however,
received his son and his daughter-in-law with the

THE BYRON FAMILY. 157

outward show of hospitality, although he had se-
cretly determined to discard him from his affec-
tions, and substitute the younger brother in his
place. He carried out his object by marrying the
iatter, John, to the daughter of Sir William
Fitzwilliam, Lord Deputy of Ireland, ancestor
of the Earls Fitzwilliam, at the same time settling
half the patrimonial estates, by a solemn deed,
upon him and the issue of the marriage. The
rare beauty and accomplishments of the lady are
thus recorded : " She had an honourable aspiring
to all things excellent, and being assisted by the
great education her father gave her, attained to
a high degree of learning and language, to such an
excellencie in musick and poetry, that she made
rare compositions in both kindes, and there was
not any of those extraordinary qualities, which
are therefore more, glorious, because more rare in
the female sex, but she was excellent in them ;
and besides, all these ornaments of soule, she had
a body of as admirable forme and beauty, which
justly made her husband so infinitely enamour'd
of her as never man was more." If this paragon
of female excellence had any fault, it was perhaps
a slight feeling of jealousy towards her less noble,
but no less beautiful, sister-in-law, the wife of
her husband's elder brother. This feeling, how-
ever, was but of short duration, as a melancholy

158 THE BYRON FAMILY.

accident, which speedily dissipated every thought
but pity and compassion for the object of her
previous envy, occurred. Richard Byron, like
all the members of his family, was passionately
fond of hunting, but at the same time he was no
less fond of that description of sport which passes
under the denomination of practical jokes, and
which, to any excess, generally terminates un-
pleasantly to the contrivers. One morning, as
Richard Byron was going out to hunt with his
father, he caused some chemical preparation to
be placed under the saddle of one of his attendant
grooms,in orderto render the animal unmanageable,
that he might divert himself and his young friends
at the poor servant's expense. This sorry joke
succeeded to his utmost wishes, and caused much
laughter to many of his thoughtless associates
but to none more than the contriver of the plot,
who, in the exuberance of his mirth, fell off his
horse, and expired in convulsions. As he left no
issue, his younger brother, John, afterwards Sir
John Byron, became the heir of the family, and
was the father of a numerous issue.

From the description we have given, from a
contemporaneous authority, of the personal graces,
virtues, and acquirements of the wife of this
gentleman, we may readily conceive how happily
they lived in the enjoyment of each other's so-

THE BYRON FAMILY. 159

ciety, and years rolled on in one uninterrupted
course of domestic peace and happiness, and again,
for the fifth time, Lady Byron was eneiente. The
period of her accouchement drew near ; a child
was born ; but the little Margaret, for so it was
afterwards named, brought no happiness to her
father ; for with her birth fled the reason of her
mother. Sir John was inconsolable ; physicians
of the greatest eminence were consulted, every-
thing that love and duty could suggest were
essayed in vain ; Lady Byron was pronounced an
incurable lunatic. Her ravings were described as
" a pretty deliration, more delightful than other
women's most rational conversation ; " and from
subsequent events we may conclude that her
malady was some curious hallucination, an aber-
ration of mind, not an entire alienation of intel-
lect. From this moment, Sir John Byron retired
from public life, devoting himself to the object of
his affection, and the care and education of his
children.

Years rolled on, but without diminishing the
madness of the wife or the sorrow of the husband.
Sir John's only exercise, no longer an amuse-
ment, but practised for the maintenance of his
health, was hunting. Each morning, before he
started for the field, he prayed with his domestic
chaplain, supplicating Heaven to prolong his

160 THE BYRON FAMILY.

beloved one's life, for the health of Lady Byron now
began to decline , We omitted to state that he
slept constantly in the same chamber with his
lady ; but from the moment of her illness two fe-
male domestics sat by her bedside night and day,
to watch and administer to her comfort. One
night, while Sir John was sleeping profoundly in
another bed, at the further end of the dormitory,
his still beautiful wife gave up the ghost, upon
which her women stole from the room, and flew
to the chaplain, begging him to awaken Sir
John, and gently break the unwelcome tidings to
him. The chaplain rose, and hastened to the bed-
side of his kind patron, who still slept. The
noise, however, caused him to wake, when, instead
of asking intelligence of Lady Byron, as he had
universally done, up to that day, he said " I be-
seech thee, Reverend Sir, to pray with me," and
referred to some particular prayer. The chaplain
obeyed. Sir John repeated it after him with
great fervency, when suddenly, his voice ceasing,
the chaplain became alarmed; he went nearer to
him, and found that he was dead.

Unless Sir John Byron had risen during the
momentary absence of the servants, which, from
the fact of the chaplain finding him asleep, is im-
probable, he knew not of his lady's death, save by
that sympathy which we are told sometimes warns

LADY HARRIET ACLAND. 161

us of approaching danger to the objects of our
love. We will not, however, discuss this question ;
as faithful historians of a singular domestic ca-
lamity, we will merely observe that as they lived,
so they died, firm in each other's love, and were
buried together on the same day in the same
vault ; and that the little Margaret, who was the
unconscious author of her parents' affliction, be-
came the wife of Sir John Hutchinson, and the
mother of Colonel Hutchinson the regicide.

LADY HARRIET ACLAND.

" A little, very little book
Of good and goodly women, a very little one,
So little you might put it in a nutshell."

The Night Walker.

If the satire of our excellent old dramatists be
just — which the spirit of chivalry will not allow
us to assent to for a single instant — but if it be,
as rarity is a principal ingredient in the value of
all merchandise, a good woman, when she can be
met with, is a gem of the highest price. In fact
she must be inestimable.

162 LADY HARRIET ACLAND.

In this class, and at the very head of it, Lady
Harriet Acland should take her place, the sister of
the late Earl of Ilchester, and mother of Elizabeth
Kitty, Countess of Carnarvon, and a heroine in
every sense of the word except that in which it is
used by novelists. There is something exceedingly
touching, and even romantic in the story of her
life ; but it is the romance of truth which is a very
different thing from the romance of fiction.

Colonel Acland, the husband of Lady Harriet,
was ordered with his regiment to Canada at the
beginning of the year 1776, to bear his part in the
proposed campaign under Sir Guy Carleton. She
determined to accompany him, and we find her
enduring, with a constancy that nothing could
ever shake, all the fatigues and privations of a
soldier's life, which, in a land like America, must
have been far worse than anything suffered by
invaders in the cultivated and beaten grounds of
Europe.

In the following year General Burgoyne took the
command of the expedition from Canada to Albany,
the first object of which was to reduce the strong
garrison of Ticonderrago. As this place was ex-
pected to be defended with more than usual obsti-
nacy, the Colonel would not allow his wife to ac-
company him, but insisted upon her remaining at
Crown Point with the other ladies, who like herself

LADY HARRIET ACLAND. 163

had husbands engaged in this perilous enterprise.
Contrary, however, to what every one had pre-
dicted, the fortress was given up after a short
resistance by the Americans, who then retreated
towards Castle Town, whither they were closely
pursued by the victors. Being overtaken and
brought to bay, the Americans turned fiercely
upon their pursuers, and a desperate battle was
the consequence, in which the rifles of the colon-
ists proved quite as fatal as those of the Tyro-
lese marksmen. The Colonel fell, dangerously
wounded.

"When the tidings of this event reached Crown
Point, Lady Harriet bitterly reproached herself
for not having accompanied her husband as usual,
and could no longer be restrained by any per-
suasions, or considerations of hazard to herself,
from joining him. Tempestuous as the season
happened to be, she embarked in a little boat,
with four seamen, whom she had induced by high
rewards to peril their own lives as well as hers, in
taking her across Lake Champlain. Against all
reasonable expectation they had the good fortune
to reach the opposite shore in safety, and it was
not long before she was amply repaid for the
perilous experiment, by rejoining the object of so
much solicitude.

Under her affectionate nursing, the Colonel

164 LADY HARRIET ACLAND.

speedily became convalescent, and was able once
more to join the army, but she had now deter-
mined that no persuasions should induce her to
leave his side again. She felt, as Ruth said unto
Naomi, even if she did not so express herself,; —
" Entreat me not to leave thee, or return from
following after thee ; for whither thou goest, I
will go ; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge ;
where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be
buried."

In pursuance of the plan she had laid down for
herself, Lady Acland purchased at Fort Edward,
or the nearest camp, a two-wheeled tumbril, by
way of carriage. It had been constructed by
some of the artillery men, and somewhat
resembled the vehicles in use among the mail-
carriers upon the cross-roads in England. At
this time Colonel Acland commanded the British
grenadiers, attached to that part of the army
which, under General Fraser, was employed in
harassing the rear of the enemy. It consisted of
light infantry, selected for this special purpose
from all the regiments ; and such unceasing ac-
tivity was required in the service upon which they
were employed, that neither men nor officers could
take off their clothes for days together. While
they were engaged in this duty, the tent in which
the colonel and Lady Harriet were sleeping, by

LADY HARRIET ACLAND. 165

some accident, took fire. An orderly sergeant of
grenadiers, at the imminent danger to himself of
suffocation, plunged at once into the midst of the
smoke and flames, and dragged out the first person
he could lay hold of. It chanced to be the Colonel.
Almost at the same moment Lady Harriet was
awakened by the heat and noise, and made the best
of her way out at the back part of the tenit, when
the first thing she saw was her husband rushing
wildly into the flames, from which he had just
escaped, for the purpose of saving herself. For-
tunately the faithful sergeant was at hand, and a
second time perilled his own life to save the
Colonel, which, however, he did not effect without
being burnt in his face and several parts of his body.
This accident, which occurred a little before
General Burgoyne passed the river Hudson, had
Hot the least effect upon our indomitable heroine,
or if it had any, it was only to make her more
keenly alive to the dangers of her husband's situ-
ation, and the comfort and solace he must derive
from her being present. Under such circum-
stances her spirit was not to be subdued, either by
flood or fire, or even by the scenes of horror
inseparable from a soldier's life when employed
upon such active duty. She was destined, how-
ever, to what a mind so constituted must have
deemed the severest of trials.

166 LADY HARRIET ACLAND.

On the 19th of September, 1777, things had
taken such a turn that a desperate conflict might
be hourly, if not momentarily, expected between
the English and the revolted colonists; and as
the Colonel would in all probability have to bear
the first brunt of battle, he requested his wife to
follow the route of the artillery and baggage.
When the action commenced, she found herself
near a small uninhabited hut, where she alighted
with her three companions, the Baroness Reidesel,
and the wives of two British officers, Major
Harnage and Lieutenant Reynell.

A more painful situation can scarcely be ima-
gined than that of four anxious females con-
demned to listen to the thunders of a battle, in
which each had a husband engaged, while she
had no means of learning how the day was really
going on. It is on such occasions, as in darkness,
that the fancy is always busiest, peopling the im-
penetrable space with all manner of terrific images.
Every roll of those guns, they well knew, was
carrying death to scores of brave men, and why
not to those in whom they were taking so painful
an interest ? At length they were doomed to be
eye-witnesses to a part, at least, of the havoc,
and that without moving from their place of re-
fuge. The surgeons, finding the number of the
wounded increase frightfully upon their hands

LADY HARRIET ACLAND. 167

with each moment, converted the hovel into a
temporary hospital, and the women had thus to
face all the horrors of war in cold blood, without
any of its excitement to support them.

Few battles have been fought with more deter-
mined courage, or with more fatal results, than
this, in which Englishmen were waged against
Englishmen ; for the colonists could hardly be
said as yet to form a distinct race ; the blood of
the mother country was still flowing in their veins,
and the war was as much a war of brethren as if
it had been fought within the limits of Kent or
Surrey. The British bayonet was repeatedly tried
in vain ; and no wonder, when it was tried against
British bosoms. The carnage on both sides was
truly frightful, but more particularly on that of
the assailants. Of a detachment of forty-eight
artillerymen and their captain, thirty-six were
killed, and in other parts of the field the destruc-
tion, if not as great, was yet enormous beyond all
precedent. Of these facts, in their general out-
line at least, the little party in the cottage was
made most unpleasantly aware by the numbers of
wounded that were being added every moment to
those already under the hands of the surgeons.
Presently they had yet more painful evidence of
what was going on. Major Harnage was brought
in, desperately wounded, and shortly afterwards

168 LADY HARRIET ACLAND.

news came that Lieutenant Reynell had been shot
dead on tbe field of battle. In the evening, how-
ever, the Americans gave way, but effected a con-
fused retreat, the victors being too much exhausted
by the events of the day, and their numbers
having been too fatally thinned in the struggle to
allow of a vigorous pursuit.

From this period, the bloody game of war was
kept up with little or no cessation. Not a night
passed without sharp fighting; and sometimes
concerted attacks were made upon the advanced
corps in which Colonel Acland was always posted,
so that his affectionate wife had no respite what-
ever from her anxiety on his account. At length,
on the 7th of October, a pitched battle took place,
of a yet more tremendous character than any
which had been fought before. In this Sir Francis
Clark was killed, General Frazer was mortally
wounded, Colonel Acland was struck down and
made prisoner, and the British were defeated.

The next day brought with it a continuation of
this calamitous beginning. Not a tent nor a shed
remained standing but what was occupied by the
surgeons, and Lady Harriet, with her companions,
was thus obliged to take refuge amongst the
wounded, or lie exposed to all the inclemency of
the season. They saw General Frazer expire, and
heard him with his dying breath request that he

LADY HARRIET ACLAND. 169

might be carried by the soldiers of hjs own corps
to the great redoubt where he had received the
fatal shot, and where he wished to be buried.
Such an injunction was, of course, religiously ful-
filled by the survivors. The sun was setting
broadly amidst a mass of dark clouds — fit emblem
of a soldier's obsequies in the hour of defeat —
and the evening wind piped mournfully through
the woods, when the corpse was borne along in
sight of both armies. Will it be believed ? The
Americans had so little of the feeling which be-
longs to the brave and high-minded, that they
kept up an incessant cannonade upon the funeral
array, the balls more than once striking the ground
at a short distance of Mr. Brudenell, the offi-
ciating chaplain, and Hinging the dust and pebbles
upon the book from which he read the service.
It was, indeed, a moment of the deepest and yet
most painful interest. The stern, silent indigna-
tion of the soldiers, who moved neither hand nor
foot, any more than if the ceremony had been
going on in a peaceful church-yard,— the calm,
composed look of the clergyman, intent only upon
his office, — the deepening twilight, — the incessant
roar and flashing of the guns, —the scattering of
the autumnal leaves upon the coffin, as the wind
shook them from the near trees, — all combined to
VOL. i. I

170 LADT HARRIET ACLAND.

produce a scene which was not soon or easily for-
gotten by those who assisted at it.

When this melancholy duty had heen per-
formed, Lady Acland entreated General Bur-
goyne to furnish her with the necessary means of
joining her wounded husband in the enemy's
camp on the other side of the river. The General,
though well aware of her courage and devoted
affection, was thunderstruck at such a request.
She was already well nigh exhausted by want of
food and the harassing events of the last few
weeks ; besides which, it was very questionable
how she might be received by an enemy who had
hitherto shewn himself but little observant of
the rules of generous warfare. All this Bur-
goyne urged upon her to the utmost ; but finding
her still resolute, he yielded a reluctant consent.
She was then furnished with an open boat, the
time allowing of nothing better, and, with Mr.
Brudenell for her companion, a female servant,
and the Colonel's valet-de-chambre, she rowed
down the river towards the enemy's encamp-
ment.

The night, which had become both cold and
stormy, was far advanced by the time the party
reached the American outposts on the banks of
the water, when their first reception fully jus-
tified the wise fears of General Burgoyne. The

LADY HARRIET ACLAND. 171

sentinel could hardly be persuaded not to fire upon
them ; to allow of their landing before day-break,
he declared was out of the question, although Mr.
Brudenell displayed a flag of truce, and explained
the condition of the lady. To nothing would the
man listen, so punctual was he to his orders, and
so much was he in fear of treachery. Neither
would he consent to their returning whence they
came ; there they were, and there they must re-
main till morning.

Cold and dreary as the night proved, there was
now no help for it. Lady Harriet and her com-
panions were obliged to pass the hours till day-
light in the open boat, under the very rifles of
the American outposts, who were pretty certain,
at the first doubtful movement, to keep their
word and fire upon them. But the long expected
time came at length to their relief, and they were
brought before General Gates, after a night of
almost intolerable suffering. It is, however, but
justice to the American leader, to record that he
treated her with the greatest kindness, and upon
learning the object of her mission, immediately
gave her a safe conduct to her husband.

And here our story must in prudence break off,

- for, having given the reader so much of the cup

as was pure and sparkling, it would be pity to

mar its flavour with the dregs of sentiments.

i 2

172 THE LEES.

Only, as a I'envoie, we must be allowed to quote
the beautiful and very pertinent lines of Sir
Walter Scott : —

" O, woman ! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou."

THE LEES.

If human evidence is to be taken as a sufficient
test of truth, as we seem to allow it in the most
important cases, then witches and ghosts — I will
not answer for fairies — but witches and ghosts
have as good a claim upon our belief as any other
of the shadows that come reflected to us from the
glass of history ; or if this should seem too general
a proposition it must be at least conceded to us
that many of these tales are confirmed by such
testimony as in any other case would be thought
unquestionable. A teller therefore of ghost-
stories must be a sad bungler in his vocation, who

THE LEES. 173

does not come prepared with witnesses more than
his pack can hold, and quite enough to overwhelm
poor common sense if she presumes to mingle in
the argument. On the present occasion, should
any unreasonable sceptic affirm that our ghost is
no ghost, I must needs reply as Ancient Pistol
replied to his maligners.

Did not the right reverend bishop of Gloucester
draw up the narrative, which he received from the
lips of the young lady's father ? and is it not in print
and reprint, and what more could any moderate
person desire ? To be sure the colouring is a little,
and only a little, heightened ; the outlines pre-
sented so bold a caricature of probability that I
could not help throwing in a few touches here and
there to render the romance of the thing yet more
perfect, just as a drawing-master, without altering
the substance of his pupil's work, contrives by a
few skilful shadows from his own brush to make a
very creditable affair out of a mere crudity.

Our narrative must commence with the birth of
her who is destined to be its heroine, for the two
extremes of the mortal chain — birth and death —
wear a closer connexion in this case than they do
in general.

Sir Charles Lee was anxiously awaiting in the
parlour of Billesley the moment that was to make
him the happy father of a son and heir, and troubled

174 THE LEES.

with no other apprehension but that a girl might
possibly be borne to him instead, and defeat his
expectations. He was soon however to have a
more serious cause of grief to deal with than
any which could arise from the mere overthrow of
. his air-built castles. The same messenger who
announced to him that he was the father of a girl,
brought also the melancholy tidings of his wife's
death.

It would afford the reader little pleasure to ahide
for any time in the house of mourning, or to
follow the poor lady in her dreary passage from
the death-bed to the grave. There are few
amongst us, who are not able to fill up each gloomy
picture from their own experience; and, there-
fore, leaving alike the pomps and the sorrows of a
funeral, we shall attend upon the fortunes of the
infant heiress, who had thus in a two-fold manner
been the wreck of her father's happiness.

Lady Everard, the sister of Sir Charles, had heen
with the deceased in her last moments, and either at
her dying request, or moved by the child's helpless
condition, deprived of a mother's care at so critical
a period, she offered to take the charge of her. To
this Sir Charles gladly acceded, for, whatever poets
and novel-writers may aver to the contrary, the
fathers of real life are seldom if ever found imbued
with any violent attachment for infants, and still

THE LEES. 175

less do we see them troubled with a fancy for
playing the part of nurses. At the same time no-
thing could have been more fortunate for the young
heiress. Her aunt discharged her new duties with
equal kindness and ability, and under her care she
passed the days of childhood in happiness till
she grew up to be an accomplished and lovely
maiden. But as some alloy to these advantages
she had derived from her mother, or from the
peculiar circumstances of her birth, a mental
disease that all the care of Lady Everard in her
education had not been able to eradicate ; indeed
it had not assumed so decisive a character as to be
any wise alarming till she had attained the first
period of womanhood. This was a strong tendency
to — shall we call it superstition? — or shall we
rather say that she was under the influence of an
excitable imagination, which like some delicate
instrument vibrated at the slightest touch, and
gave forth a wild and almost painful music ? There
were times when she seemed to have glimpses of
another world, the shadows of which fell upon her
spirit as clear and distinct as the shadows from
tree or rock upon the greensward in the summer
moonlight. Many who were in the opposite
extreme and had no imagination themselves, could
not at all understand such a condition of mind,
and held it to be very nearly allied to madness ;

176 THE LEES.

those who judged with more discretion as well as
kinder feeling, when they noted her pale cheek
and its hectic flush, her hands well nigh transparent,
and the fire of her eye which burnt with an almost
intolerable lustre, they shook their heads, half
inclined to believe that in the visible decay of the
body, the restless spirit within had assumed a
predominance unintelligible indeed but not the
less certain. In spite of this eccentricity however,
her beauty and amiable disposition did not fail to
procure for her a multitude of admirers, and greatly
to the satisfaction of Lady Everard she was at length
brought to acknowledge a reciprocal attachment
for Sir William Parkins. The kind aunt had long
witnessed her niece's state with much anxiety, and
in the hope that a change of condition might lead
to a healthier tone both in mind and body, she
used her best influence with Sir Charles to promote
the union. Under such strong inducements his
consent was easily obtained, and an early day was
fixed for the nuptials.

The kind intentions of Lady Everard seemed in
a fair way of being realized. There was a visible
change for the better in her niece's manner and
appearance, for the current of her thoughts being
thus diverted from its usual course flowed on in a
much more earthly channel than it had hitherto done.
Time went on rapidly, as it always does with those

THE LEES. 177

who are in sorts with Fortune, till it wanted some-
thing less than a week to the day of marriage, and
never had the sun set upon a happier family than
it did that eventful evening.

It was now Thursday — so minute is the narrative
left to us by the good bishop. Miss Lee had retired
to bed at an earlier hour than usual, when, just as
she was on the point of falling into her first sleep,
she was startled by the sudden appearance of a
light in the chamber. She immediately rang the
bell for her maid-servant, and demanded who it
was that had entered the room at such an hour,
and for what purpose ; but the girl denied any
knowledge of the matter.

" It must have been imagination then," thought
the enquirer, "or rather I was three parts asleep
and dreamed it."

Such was probably the case, yet it left an un-
pleasant feeling upon her mind, and it was some
time before she could again close her eyes. Even
then her sleep was broken and feverish, as she well
recollected the next day, for on these occasions it
is often wonderful with what vividness the shadowy
events of the foregone night will rise upon the
memory, till the awakened dreamer can hardly
distinguish between the real and imaginary. This
may perhaps serve in some degree to explain what
next happened.

i3

178 THE LEES.

About two o'clock in the morning she again
awoke, or fancied that she did so, and was much
alarmed at seeing the apparition of a female be-
tween the bed-curtains and her pillow. Yet there
was nothing in the look or manner of the unearthly
visitant to justify any feeling of terror. On the
contrary, her face wore a singular expression of
benevolence, and when she spoke her voice was
more calculated to sooth than to excite fear, had
it not been for that instinctive and insuperable
dread which frail mortality always feels at the
communion with the disembodied, whether real or
supposed. To an indistinctly murmured, " Who,
and what are you ? " the vision replied in tones of
unutterable sweetness that she was her mother,
and being herself in a state of beatitude had been
permitted to^come and warn her child that she
must quit earth and join her when the clock should
next strike twelve. It may seem strange, but Miss
Lee was not conscious of feeling any dread at this
warning. On the contrary her great anxiety was
that the apparition should not leave her, though
from some inexpressible cause she was tongue-
tied, and could not utter a syllable.

The shade had scarcely ceased to speak than a
sweet, low music filled the chamber, and a cool air
blew upon the maiden's brow as if the casement
had just been opened. The next moment a pro-

THE LEES. 179

found sleep came upon her. It could not, how-
ever, have lasted long, for when she again awoke
the sun had barely risen, and the moon had not
yet quite faded away, but wore a pale spectral
appearance as if it had been the shadow of
itself. Kinging the bell for her servant she
dressed herself for the day, and retired into a
closet adjoining her bed room, which she was in
the habit of using for an oratory.

Nine o'clock was the usual breakfast-hour of
the family, when Miss Lee came down with her
wonted punctuality. She had a sealed letter in
her hand, which she silently presented to her aunt
while the tears stood in her large black eyes.

" My dear ! " exclaimed Lady Everard in alarm,
" what is the meaning of all this ? "

An explanation naturally ensued, but Lady
Everard, attributing the vision, as most people
would have done, to a deceased state of mind or
body, or perhaps of both, sent off to Chelmsford
for a physician, who hastened to Waltham without
delay upon her summons. Neither of them could
perceive any thing in the mental or bodily state of
the patient which could account for this hallucina-
tion, if indeed it were hallucination; her pulses
beat temperately, and her conversation on every
subject was calm and consistent, unless the story
of what she had seen in the night was to be consi-
ered an exception. They candidly owned there-

180 THE LEES.

fore that as they could find no disease it was
useless for them to talk of administering any
remedies. But Lady Everard, led away by her
excessive anxiety, insisted upon her niece being
bled, and Miss Lee herself made no objection, her
temper at all times mild, being now more gentle
and affectionate than ever. No sooner was the
operation over, and the arm bound up again, than
she requested that the chaplain might be called in
to read prayers — " and when prayers were ended,
see took her guitar and psalm-book, and played
and sang so melodiously and admirably, that her
music-master, who was then there, admired at it ;
and near the stroke of twelve she rose and sate
herself down in a great chair with arms, and pre-
sently fetching a strong breathing or two, she
immediately expired, and was so suddenly cold as
was much wondered at by the physician and
surgeon. She died at Waltham, in Essex, three
miles from Chelmsford, and the letter was sent to
Sir Charles at his house, Billesley, in Warwick-
shire ; but he was so afflicted at the death of his
daughter, that he came not till she was buried;
but when he came, he caused her to be taken up
and to be buried with her mother at Edmonton,
as she desired in her letter."

Now here is a ghost-story as well authenticated
as a tale of any kind need be ; but for all that,
" credat Judceus ! "

181

THE WHITE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

A TALE OF KILMALLOCK.

The place where our younger days have been
passed, even if they should have proved days of
sorrow can hardly be left by us for ever without
feeling some pangs of regret, and our thoughts
must often return to those hours which are lost in
the flight of years, the more distant, the more
hallowed. But can a stranger pass through Kil-
mallock, and not be struck with the many rem-
nants of " the olden times" that it presents — its
mouldering towers and its magnificent abbey?
Alas ! each moment adds to the desolation, and
soon no trace of even these will be found.

In the middle of the once splendid aisle of
Kilmallock Abbey lies the tomb of Maurice Fitz
Gerald, the celebrated White Knight, that singular
compound of good and evil, and both upon the
grandest scale. Being not only a prodigious
admirer of such ancient reliques, but somewhat

182 THE WHITE KNIGHT S TOMB.

given to the pleasant occupation of dreaming
while awake, I sat one day upon the White
Knight's tomb, meditating on his past fame and
present nothingness till I had fairly dreamed
myself away into the world of other times. From
this agreeable reverie I was suddenly roused by a
loud laugh, and of so unusual a sound, that I
actually jumped up from my seat. The feeling
however was but momentary, and turning round
I discovered a most outlandish figure leisurely
taking possession of the seat I had just left. It
was a little man, with something of that cast of
countenance which is generally ascribed to the
Clurieaune race ; the sunk but brightly glimmer-
ing eye, the nose nearly equal in length to the
entire face, and some other no less striking points
of coincidence, almost made me imagine that one
of those beings had indeed thus suddenly arisen
before me.

Giving rather a satirical smile, and settling
himself still more comfortably on the tomb, he
said,—

" I believe I have disturbed you, sir ; " then
without waiting for my answer he went on, " I
have come many a mile to meet one who can tell
me the spot where Maurice Fitz Gerald really lies ? "

" You are at present, sir," said I, " resting upon
his ashes."

THE WHITE KNIGHT'S TOMB. 183

"Ha," replied the little man, "glad of it, I
have a crow to pluck with him."

I could not help starting, and eyed my friend
rather suspiciously — " Who ever heard," thought
I, " of a man having a crow to pluck with one
who has been dead for centuries."

The stranger chuckled at my apparent astonish-
ment.

" Surprised, are you not, sir ? but from genera-
tion to generation hatred to this man who sleeps
beneath us has been handed down as an heir loom
in our family ; and cursed be the heart of an
O'Rourke that ceases to nourish such a feeling."

" When the object of it," answered I, "has
been for centuries a tenant of another world, it
is unchristianlike and sinful not to forgive and
forget."

"It may be so, sir," replied he, evidently work-
ing himself into a passion ; but you little know
the wrongs our race has suffered from him, ■ all that
was beautiful and brave sank beneath his power ;
and what is left of the O'Rourkes but the reptile,
the laughing stock, the half man, half beast, that
now sits in triumph upon his ashes."

The little man's features lit up with such fierce
enthusiasm, that ugly as he was I could not help
being struck by them ; but the dark shade that
passed quickly over them, shewed how sure and

184 THE WHITE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

deadly would be his revenge, if a living mortal
were unfortunate enough in any way to injure hinv

"They tell me," he continued, "they tell me
that Heaven itself has set its mark on this foul
murderer ; and, be the day as bright as ever made
this earth happy, a drop of rain is still found on
the tomb."

" Yes," said I, " it is said "

" Said," he repeated, bending a frowning look
on me, — " you don't believe it, then 1"

" Certainly I do believe it, for I have seen, or
at least have fancied I have seen, the drop a
hundred times."

" Half the things of this world are but fancies,''
he replied thoughtfully. " But there — there — do
you call this fancy 1 "

He pointed to a dark spot on the stone.

" Heaven I thank thee for having granted her
prayer."

" Whose ? " exclaimed I, eagerly, anxious to
make out the story of this mysterious being.

" Young man," he answered, " you have not
laughed at my vehemence, or my folly ; you may
feel an interest in the recital of the woes of other
days. Sit down, then, beside me, and on the
grave of him, the destroyer of an ancient, our
noble, our unoffending race : listen to the words
of the last descendant of the Princes of Brefni."

THE WHITE KNIGHT'S TOMB. 185

Overcome with agitation, he paused for a few
moments, and then commenced the following story.

" These conventual ruins which now surround
us, were, at the time I am about to speak of, in
their full pride and magnificence, and echoed each
day the voices of many that have long since passed
into the land of peace. The Abbess presiding
over the convent was a truly amiable and virtuous
woman, but was forced in many things to pay
an unwilling obedience to the White Knight, who,
not content with confining his cruelties to his
castle at Mitchellstown, exercised a despotic au-
thority over the entire of the south of Ireland,
and chiefly about these parts. Alas ! I know not
what induced my unfortunate ancestor to place
his only daughter within these walls ; but in those
times of warfare and confusion females could find
hut few places of security in their native land,
except when immured in convents, or when buried
in mountain fastnesses.

" Elgiva O'Rourke was the loveliest girl of her
time, justly indeed called the flower of Brefni'
Her dark ringlets shaded a face of dazzling fair-
ness, and her step, light with youthful joy, carried
pleasure wherever it moved, and lessened to others
the convent's gloom. I forgot to mention that
she had not taken the veil, but was only placed
there until the times became more quiet and

186 THE WHITE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

long-expected peace revisited this ill-fated coun-
try.

"Time glided on with but little variation to
Elgiva ; the walls of the convent were the limits
of her world, and beyond them she rarely wan-
dered, and then always accompanied by one of the
elder nuns. In some of these excursions the
Abbess herself became her companion, and as she
was a woman infinitely superior to the other nuns
Elgiva felt great pleasure in her society. Few,
however, were the pleasures this unfortunate cause
of our ruin was to enjoy in this world.

" The Abbess had successfully endeavoured to
conceal from the "White Knight the knowledge
that Elgiva O'Rourke had found an asylum with
her, knowing well from the deadly feuds which
had so long existed between his family and the
Princes of Brefni, that he would lose no oppor-
tunity of obtaining possession of so valuable a
prize. Unfortunately, by some accidental circum-
stance, it was discovered, and you may well judge
of the horror of Elgiva, when she suddenly found
herself in the power of her father's bitterest foe,
and received the command to prepare for imme-
diate removal to one of the White Knight's for-
tresses. Trusting alone in Him who has the power
to save in the greatest extremities, she became an
inmate of Mitchellstown Castle ; but to do justice

THE WHITE KNIGHT'S TOMB. 187

to the memory of its hated master, she was there
treated rather as a guest than a prisoner, and
enjoyed more liberty than she had even in this
abbey.

"Among the children of the White Knight
was one, of a very different character from his
father. Edmund Fitz Gerald was merciful and
just, and many a poor wretch, the victim of his
father's cruelty, found in him a comforter. Too
romantic, perhaps, in disposition, he at first pitied
and then unconsciously loved Elgiva, her young
heart could not be long blind to his passion, and
he soon found his love not unrequited ; their
dreams of bliss were never destined to be realized,
and all the vengeance that an O'Rourke could
hope for, burst on the head of a degenerate
child.

" The White Knight quickly discovered their
growing partiality, but the wretch cared not if
the daughter of his enemy were dishonoured.
Finding, however, his son bent on marriage, and
too noble to enter into his father's schemes, he
determined to remove Elgiva, but his precautions
were taken too late ; the night before her intended
departure, Edmund persuaded her to fly with
him, and with one faithful attendant reached this
place. The Abbess was forced to give a reluctant

188 THE WHITE- KNIGHT'S TOMB.

consent to their being united here, but the morn-
ing intended for their nuptials brought with it a
fearful tempest. The White Knight, frantic with
rage, pursued the fugitives, and in the middle of
the ceremony burst into the chapel. Yes! per-
haps on this very spot, where rest the ashes of the
murderer, the life blood of Elgiva sank into the
ground — the tyrant stabbed her to the heart.
Edmund was banished for many years his father's
presence, while his poor servant suffered bitterly
for his fidelity. Pent up in a small chasm be-
tween two rocks,* as in a clopstick, and supplied
with just sufficient food to keep up life, he lingered
for several days in excruciating agony, until death
released him from his sufferings.

" From that hour I may date the decline of the
once powerful Princes of Brefni. To revenge
Elgiva's death, war was carried on for a long
period against the White Knight: but his evil
genius prevailed. In the dungeons of his castle
the bravest of my race expired; one alone, a de-
formed and crippled being, the tyrant spared, as
he tauntingly said, to be the progenitor of a
mighty and splendid tribe. Behold me the very

* In laying the foundation of the magnificent Castle of the
present Earl of Kingston a skeleton was found in the exact
situation described above, suspended between two rocks,

THE WHITE KNIGHT'S TOMB. 189

image of that man, the last" — he paused and
struggled for breath — " the last of the Brefni
race. But have I not lived to see all but the
memory of his deeds sink into oblivion, and his
possessions belonging to another name.

" You have heard my story. From America I
came to see this spot, and I now bid you farewell.
Sometimes when you wander here, think on
Phelim 0'B.ourke ; be assured he will not forget
the stranger of the White Knight's Tomb."

He darted away before I had time to thank him
for his confidence, and was out of sight in a few
momen*s.

We never met again, but some days since by
chance looking over an extract from an American
paper, the following paragraph caught my eye.

" At Boston, on the 17th of February, 1829,
died Phelim O'Rourke, the last heir male and
representative of the ancient Princes of Brefni."

The tomb of the White Knight was broken
open a few years since by a soldier who dreamt
that there was money concealed in it, but his only
discovery was, a part of a rusty sword, a spur, and
some broken pieces of armour — a treasure more
to be prized by an antiquarian than by him.
Since then the memorable stone alluded to in the
tale has been lying by, broken into two fragments.
The following is the inscription on it ; —

190 THE WHITE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

HIC TVIIHLVS -ERECTVSEV-

+T-+N MEMORIAM-+LL+ VSSTF-

MMAT+S-GERALD+NORVMQV+

VVLGO-VOCANTVR-EQV+TES

ALB+

+OHANHES-CVM-F+L+OSVO

EDMVnDO-ET-MAVR.+C+OE+

L+ORRFEAT-+-EDMVND+.

ETMVLT+-AL++-E+VSDEM-FAM+L-

+AEE H+C-TVNVLAIITARPREEE

ATVS

The Abbey and adjoining lands were granted
to Sir Philip Coote, brother of the first Earl of
Mountrath, and are now in the possession of his
descendant, Charles Chidley Coote, Esq., of Mount
Coote. From an elder branch of this ancient
family came the celebrated Sir Eyre Coote, the
conqueror of Hyder Ali. He was the sixth son
of the Rev. Chidley Coote, D.D., by Jane Evans,
sister of George, first Lord Carbery, and was born
at Ashill, now the residence of Eyre Evans, Esq.,
though the old house which witnessed the first
appearance in life of this hero who was the means
of adding so much to our Indian Empire, is now
in ruins, the present mansion being on a different
site. This neighbourhood also can boast of being
the birth place of another hero, General William
Lord Blakeney, the celebrated Governor of Min-
orca, who was born at Mount Blakeney, about
two miles from Kilmallock, but whose immediate

A TALE OF BULGADEN HALL. 191

family have become extinct in the male line, the
property being now in the possession of Mrs.
Fitz Gerald, of "Whitegate House, near Cloyne,
a descendant of the brother of his Lordship.
Lieutenant General Sir Edward Blakeney, G.C.B.,
the Commander of the Forces in Ireland, derives
from the elder branch of Lord Blakeney's family.

A TALE OE BULGADEN HALL.

On the once much frequented, though now
almost forsaken coachroad between Limerick and
Cork — for rails and locomotives have intruded them-
selves even upon the neglected land of Erin — the
traveller may observe on his left hand on quitting
the village of Bruff, the old Castle of Ballygren-
nane, which though in ruins, still presents some-
what of its pristine grandeur. Itwas built by the
De Lacys, and came subsequently into the pos-
session of the great house of Desmond, whose
territories spread far and wide around, where from
many a castle these proud earls could say they
w^eremonarchs of all they surveyed ; but as all
earthly things must fade, so perished the power
of the Desmonds, for not one sod of ground, save

192 A TALE OF BULGADEN HALL.

the narrow confines of the grave, now owns a
Desmond as its master; finally the Castle of
Ballygrennane and its broad acres devolved upon
the family of Evans, afterwards called to the
peerage as Barons of Carbery, in whom the
property and title still vest. Colonel George
Evans, M.P. for Askeaton in the reign of Charles
the Second, who lived and died here, was the last
of the name who made the castle his residence,
but with them we have naught to do at present,
though it is said this gentleman had many a quaint
adventure and mishap ere he lay down to die in
peace as tne Lord of Ballygrennane. We would,
however, invite the traveller not to relax his gaze,
especially as the march of science has deprived
him of the society of the facetious Mister O'Brien,
better known as the Gentleman Coachman, and
his less pretending, though not less communi-
cative rival, Sullivan, whose labours are trans-
ferred to regions more remote, where the rapid
train does not as yet offer interruption to the
willing ears which still listen to their random
recollections of the road. A little beyond Bally,
grennane, and somewhat farther removed from the
river, exhibiting itself as a slight foreground to
the lofty range of the Galtees, may be observed a
hill covered with the remains of stately groves,
but laid out with the bad taste of King William

A TALE OF BULGADEN HALL. 193

and his Dutch gardeners. In this spot stands all
that remains of Bulgaden Hall, once, according to
Ferrers, in his " History of Limerick," the most
magnificent seat in the south of Ireland, erected
by the Right Hon. George Evans,* son and suc-
cessor of the old Colonel, of Ballygrennane, a
senator, and privy councillor to three successive
sovereigns, who refused the peerage, afterwards
conferred, during his life time, on his son, and was
honoured at his death with such respect that his
body was permitted to lie in state in the Parliament
House in Dublin, until removed forinterment with
his ancestors in the family vault at Ballygrennane.
From him Bulgaden passed to the first Lord Car-
bery,and at his decease became the residence of his
second son, the Hon. John Evans. This was the
period of its halcyon days, for in addition to the
large property bequeathed him by his father, Mr.
Evans greatly increased his worldly estate by his
marriage, in 1741, with grace, the daughter, and

* George Evans was created Baron Carbery, county of Cork,
on the 9th of May, 1715, the first year of the reign of George the
First. Family tradition proclaims him to have been distinguished
for great personal attractions, so much so that Queen Anne,
struck by his appearance at one of her levees, took a ring from
her finger and presented it to him. This ring is still preserved
as a heir-loom at LaxtonHall, Northamptonshire, a seat brought
into the Evans' family by the marriage of this Lord Carbery
with the heiress of the Staffords. He was the great-great-grand-
father of George, present and seventh Lord Carbery.
VOL. I. K

194 A TALE OF BULOADEN HALL.

eventually heiress of Sir Ralph Freke, of Castle
Freke, in the county of Cork, and thus that pro-
perty and name were Drought into his family.
Four sons and an equal number of daughters were
the fruits of this happy union. Surrounded as
was this delightful spot with such historical re-
collection and romantic scenery, on one side the
romantic range of the Galtees, Castle Oliver, and
the Ballyhouras, reaching far in the distance into
the county of Cork, and on the other, the beauti-
ful valley (through part of which the innovating
railroad speeds its way), with the picturesque
towers and mouldering ruins of the ancient town
of Kilmallock, its cathedral, its abbey, and its
castellated posterns, — surrounded by such pros-
pects, what thoughts must have occupied the
minds of the family of Bulgaden, when comparing
their magnificent hall and its proud domain with
the ruins, however picturesque, and the beautiful
desolation by which they were environed. Did
they, — could they, indeed, — contemplate the time
when their loved abode would become the prey of
the destroyer, their noble mansion the dwelling
of the screech-owl and the bat ? Yet so it was }
shewirg how speedily the hand of time, when un-
resisted by man's intelligence, can accomplish its
work of destruction, — aye, even in the life-time
of those who sported there as children. Various,

A TALE OF BULGADEN HALL. 195

probably, were tbeir paths through life, chequered
no doubt with joys and sorrows ; but we have
only to trace and follow the fate of George Evans,
the eldest son and heir, who, by the death of his
father during his minority, became the youthful
possessor of large landed estates, and the master
of Bulgaden Hall, while the Freke property de-
volved at the same time on the second son, who
assumed that name in addition to his own, and
took up his residence at Castle Freke.

George Evans, of Bulgaden, the hero of our
tale, was handsome, gay, manly, and independent;
these qualities, added to his wealth and station,
rendered him a desirable acquisition to the fair
damsels of his county, but for a long time vain
were all their efforts to 'entrap him ; like the fair
ones in Moore's song of the " Love Knots," who
watched for Cupid passing by, but could not
catch him, the beauties of Ireland spread their
nets to no purpose. But the coldest breast will
warm at last, and even the stoic's pulse will throb
in homage to his own perception of female loveli-
ness and perfection. Thus it was with George
Evans, and thus it is with most people.

Among the many places from which our ever-
welcome guest received most pressing invitations
was Cahirnelly, the seat of Colonel S tamer, in the
county of Clare. If the reader will pardon a bad

k 2

196 A TALE OF BULGADEN HALL.

pun upon so serious a subject, we confess we are
tempted to observe, that had he been endowed
with the gift of Clairvoyance, he would have
avoided the county. He could not exclaim with
Caesar, veni, vidi, vici, bat in plain English he
might say, he came, he saw, he was conquered by
the bright eyes of his host's beautiful daughter.
It was that love at first sight which philosophers
deny, but experience shews to be true ; nor did
the lady use any arts to captivate this cold ad-
mirer, and yet in the absence of all these usual
inducements to affection, she was the woman of
his choice— the mistress of his heart — she must be
the sharer of his fortune — she should be the Lady
of Bulgaden Hall. The family of Colonel Stamer
consisted of two daughters. On the beauty and
accomplishments of her who had become the idol
of our hero's soul we need not expatiate, but our
tale requires some slight description of her sister.
She was not ugly, for no woman ever was, accord-
ing to the stringent rules of gallantry, upon which
we dare not trespass, but she was truly plain.
Our Gallic neighbours have a quaint saying de-
scriptive of female prettiness, — " II y a deplus hide
qui ne sont pas encore rnaljolies.'' Of this young
lady the saying might have been reversed, as —
" II a de plus jolie qui ne sont pas encore mal
laides," added to which, family tradition gave her

A TALE OF BULGADEN HALL. 197

a lameness or contortion, not calculated to aug-
ment her personal charms, or shew off her figure
to advantage in the mazy dance, to which the sons
of St. Patrick are so devoted. In the days of
which we are writing, courtships were short, and
some presume to assert that happiness was, there-
fore (as a sequitur), the more lasting, — le mar-
riage de convenience was in strict keeping with the
spirit of the times. Opposition to George Evans
would have been attributed to insanity by the
world, disobedience to a father's wishes high trea-
son against paternal government. Things of
course followed their natural direction, as the
stream flows downwards from its source, and the
master of Bulgaden Hall proffered his hand and
his heart, not at first to the " ladye of his love,"
but, as in duty bound, to the amiable authors of
her existence. Colonel and Mrs. Stamer gladly
accepted that offer, for which their less favoured
neighbours had vainly sighed, and hastened to
communicate the joyful tidings, with the happy
prospect of a brilliant settlement, to their lovely
daughter. But language is inadequate to describe
their mortification when, after detailing the sin-
gular advantages of this union, and the brilliant
wordly prospects now opening to her, they found
her turning a deaf ear alike to gentle wishes and
stern commands — for, the truth must be told, she

198 A TALE OF BULGADEN HALL.

loved another. To reason with young love was
vain — to threaten a determined spirit was fruit-
less ; her disappointed parents saw that she was
inexorable, yet still hoped, for their sakes, she
might relent. How strange that feeling in a pa-
rent's breast which dictates to a child the sacri-
fice of her happiness through life, to gratify the
pride of wealth and station, which they do not
enjoy, and can only advantage the object of their
strangely-evinced solicitude, as a wealthy set-off,
though but a slender compensation, for the hap-
piness she forfeits in obedience to their arbitrary
commands. Time, they thought, might do its
work ; wonders have been achieved through its
agency; they left the weeping beauty with her
less-favoured sister Anne, and hastened to assure
the expectant lover that her natural timidity alone
prevented an immediate answer to his suit. Strange
things have happened ever since the creation of
man, and will continue to surprise the world from
time to time, although the royal sage has de-
clared there is nothing new under the sun. Had
some bright vision of the future risen before her,
or had wordly thoughts, with the broad acres of
Bulgaden Hall, overcome her first and early pas-
sion ? Had reflection and prudence vanquished
girlish predilections ; or had filial obedience re-
sumed its natural influence over her mind ? We

A TALE OF BULGADEN HALL. 199

know not ; at least we will not mar the romance
of our tale by any further revelations upon the
subject, contenting ourselves with briefly narrating
that the very next day Miss S tamer announced to
her parents her willingness to obey their mandate,
and that Colonel S tamer lost no time in commu-
nicating the joyful tidings to his intended son-in-
law. Gaily did George Evans fly home to make
the necessary regulations for the reception of his
bride. The happy day was fixed, and Cahirnelly
was now all bustle and activity in preparing every-
thing on a scale of splendour suitable to the rank
and station of the families so deeply interested in
the event. In the days of which we are writing
strange customs held their potent sway over so-
ciety. The early wedding banquet was devoted to
wine and feasting, while the marriage itself did
not take place till the evening, when the chapel
was lighted up for the purpose.

The bridal day now came, and, as usual,
opened with a feast, when every one, according to
custom drank to excess, sobriety on these occa-
sions being a positive violation of all good breed-
ing. Not only so, but the guests would have
thought themselves highly dishonoured had the
bridegroom escaped scatheless from the wedding
banquet. None but the ladies and the chaplain
(and with regard to the latter it may still remain

200 A TALE OF BULGADEN HALL.

a matter of doubt with the sceptic), walked straight
to the altar that night ; our hero, half unconscious
of passing events, was led to where he would have
flown at an earlier hour of the day. George
Evans was married, — the knot was indissolubly
tied; and as the bright gleams of the morning's
sun shed themselves into the bridal chamber on the
following day, the master of Bulgaden, tho-
roughly awakened from his dreams, and recovered
from the effects of the liberal potations in which he
had indulged, discovered, to his horror and dismay,
that the bride he had taken for better and for
worse — she whom he had solemnly vowed to love,
honour and cherish, was not the woman of his
choice — that he was the victim of a cheat — a base
deception, that all his. hopes of earthly happiness
had at once faded, and that his future life was a
blank.

Indignant at the deception practised upon him,
he left the chamber without a word, and sought
what could not then avail him — an explanation
from Colonel Stamer. Both the Colonel and his
wife denied all share in the imposture, avouching
it in language too solemn to be disbelieved ; their
words bore the stamp of truth upon them ; but
what did all this avail him ? His condition was
nowise improved by discovering that the parents
were blameless — that the plot emanated from the

A TALE OF BULGADEN HALt. 201

woman who till then had been the idol of his soul
and that she had substituted her veiled sister Anne
for herself at the altar. To hope that he would
. pardon the stratagem — that he would try how far
his wedded wife could minister to his worldly
comforts — to expect that he would not cast a slur
upon the family by deserting the woman to whom
he had openly plighted his faith within twenty-
four hours, were arguments to be adopted by
Colonel and Mrs. Stamer, as matters of course,
and this line of policy was not neglected ; but
what reasonable man would have anticipated their
realization ? George Evans requested an inter-
view with his wife. " Madam," he said, "you
have attained your end. I need not say how you
bear ihy name, and, for the sake of your family,
I acknowledge you as my wife. You shall receive
an income from me suitable to your situation ;
this, probably, is all you cared lor with regard to
me, and you and I shall meet no more in this
world." The bride falteringly attempted an ex-
planation, but he was gone, never to return.

George Evans took leave of his home and his
country, and sought in the dissipation of the
French capital, then sunk deep in vice and licen-
tiousness, a forgetfulness of his sorrows, and died
its victim in 1769, leaving the estate of Bulgaden
in reversion to the second son of his brother,

k 3

202 A TALE OF BULGADEN HALL.

Sir John Evans Freke, Bart., then, unlike him-
self, happily united to the Lady Elizabeth Gore,
daughter of the first Earl of Arran, on condition
of this child's resuming the family name of Evans.
George Freke Evans, thus his successor, married,
in 1805, Sarah, Dowager Lady Carbery, widow of
his cousin, George, the fourth Lord, and dying
himself, without issue, in 1829, he bequeathed
Bulgaden Hall to his brother John, the sixth and
late Lord Carbery, who had succeeded to that
peerage on the failure of the heirs male of the
elder branch. But the glory of Bulgaden Hall
was gone ; for from the period of its desertion by
its luckless master, it gradually sunk into ruin,
and to mark its site nought remains but the
foundation walls and a solitary stone, bearing the
family arms, which no doubt once occupied a pro-
minent place in this splendid pile, though now
ying among the rank grass and thistles of its
deserted court.

The only member of the Evans family still re-
siding in the neighbourhood of Bulgaden, is Eyre
Evans, Esq., of Ashill Towers, near Kilmallock,
whose father, the late Colonel Eyre Evans, of
Miltown, county of Cork, was a cousin-german of
the disappointed bridegroom of our tale.

203

THE GOOD EARL OF KINGSTON.

I t is something to have borne such a title amongst
one's cotemporaries, though it is seldom allowed
to pass without challenge. Those who knew the
Earl solely from the account given of him by Lucy
Hutchinson in her celebrated memoirs, will be
at a loss to understand how he ever came to be called
the good, and yet nothing is more certain than that
he was so designated, not only amongst those of
his own class, but amongst a wide circle of the
commoners. The difficulty is not got over by
referring to the political bias of the fair Inde-
pendent, or by supposing she was unlikely to view
with favour, a man, who after having long hesi-
tated, finally threw all the weight of his influence
into the scale of the opposite party, and at a
critical moment, when, without such help, it
seemed sufficiently inclined to preponderate.

From all we know of Lucy Hutchinson, she was
much too conscientious to be guilty of wilful false-
hood, and one would have imagined, much too

204 THE GOOD EARL OP KINGSTON.

well informed in public matters, to have totally
mistaken a character of such celebrity and import-
ance. It will be our part to reconcile these con-
tradictory facts so far as it may be possible.

Upon the breaking out of the great civil war,
each of the contending parties was naturally
anxious to draw over to itself those who, but for
such half compulsion, half persuasion, would gladly
have remained neuter. The peaceably disposed
were not perhaps many in number, but they were,
generally speaking, men of wealth and descents, if
not high birth, and their influence was consider-
able. One of the first amongst this class was the
Good Earl of Kingston, who though at heart a
loyalist, was not so bigoted in his political creed
as to admire the despotic tendency of the king's
measures ; still less did he feel disposed to involve
his tenants, or any who were likely to be led by
his example, into the hazards of a war, which,
end how it would, must still have in his eyes an
unsatisfactory termination. So long therefore as
the Parliamentarians preserved a decent show of
moderation in their proceedings, and their troops
conducted themselves with something like respect
to life and property, he resolved to continue
neutral. Nothing could have been more displeas-
ng to the gentlemen of Nottingham, who being
many of them violent republicans, were indignant

THE GOOD KARL OF KINGSTON. 205

at this lack of zeal in what, to them at least, was
the good cause, and thought it high time he
should be brought to declare himself. The danger
besides, to the republican party, was increasing
every hour ', Fairfax had been defeated at Ather-
ton Moor by the Earl of Newcastle, various other
defeats had been experienced by them in different
quarters, and what was worst of all, their two
favourite leaders, Essex and Waller — for Cromwell
as yet had scarcely appeared upon the scene —
were inflamed with mutual jealousy, and kept up
such constant feuds, that the former wearied of
the war, and was with much difficulty persuaded
to retain his command. Thus circumstanced, the
republicans in Nottingham became doubly anxious
to win over the good Earl, and accordingly they
deputed Captain Lomax, one of the committee,
to wait upon him at Thoresby Park, " to under-
stand his affections from himself, and to press him
to declare for the parliament in that so needful
season."

In the meanwhile the object of all this solici-
tude was himself a prey to the liveliest anxiety.
While on the one hand he could not bring himself
to assist the king in the attainment of what he
felt to be his despotic measures, on the other he
was too deeply indebted to Charles, who had
advanced him to all his present honours, and had

206 THE GOOD EARL OF KINGSTON.

too much personal regard for him to think for a
moment of siding with his enemies. It may be
imagined therefore with what secret ill will he
received the parliamentary envoy, while preserving
an outward shew of respect and even of kindness,
which, however, did not deceive the latter. In
selecting him for this occasion, the committee had
made a wise choice, for he was a frank, bold soldier,
and having less of the Puritan than the generality
of his companions, was the more likely to make
his mission palateable to the Cavalier. He indeed
carried a ton weight of iron at his side, was clad
in a sober suit, and wore a high felt hat, but he
affected none of the scriptural language so much
in vogue with the fanatic party ; or if his speech
were now and then tinged with Bible phraseology,
it was plain to see that it had been unwittingly
caught up from his hearing nothing else, and was
none of his own seeking. Such was the ambassa-
dor who now made his appearance at the Hall in
Thoresby Park, which was burnt down in about
a century from this time, and was replaced by a
mansion much more comfortable within than
having any pretensions to external magnificence.

" I am glad to see you, Captain Lomax, in my
poor house," said the Earl, "it is long since we
have met."

" Of a truth my Lord, it is so," replied the

THE GOOD EARL OF KINGSTON. 207

Captain ; " and yet considering these troubled
times, the greater wonder is that we should meet
even now. I promise your lordship I have been
in more than one scrape that left me little chance
of ever again having such an honour."

" Well, but is this a visit of pleasure or of
business ? "

" Of both, my lord — of pleasure, because nothing
could be more agreeable to me than such an inter-
view ; but to own the plain truth, it is business
that chiefly brings me here, for without it I shall
hardly stand excused for leaving my military
duties."

The Roundhead, without more circumlocution,
entered upon the subject of his coming, dwelling
upon his Lordship's known aversion to the court
measures, and that the speedy termination of the
war by a victory over Charles, would be the best
thing for himself as well as his people. Such an
event might indeed reduce his power within
stricter and more constitutional limits, but that
his Lordship himself must allow, was desirable,
both in regard to the country, and as it would
establish the throne more securely than ever. To
all this the good Earl listened with an impatience
that he could but ill disguise, and certainly with-
out being in the least moved to alter his deter-
mination.

208 THE GOOD EARL OF KINGSTON.

"When," said he, " I take arms with the King
against the Parliament, or with the Parliament
against the King, let a cannon bullet divide me
between them."

This speech was not forgotten in after times ;
and the Puritans, who must needs be dragging in
Providence at all seasons, fitting or unfitting, and
construing the most natural events into special
interferences of Heaven, did not fail upon his
singular death to cry out " a judgment ! "

Following the traces left by Mrs. Hutchinson
in the memoirs before alluded to, it would appear
that only a short time afterwards the Earl all at
nee broke through his pacific resolutions, and
joined the King with four thousand men just when
fortune was again depressing the scales of war in
favour of the Roundheads. Upon this he was
constituted his Majesty's Lieutenant-General for
the five counties of Lincoln, Rutland, Hunt-
ingdon, Cambridge, and Norfolk, an extensive
trust which drew upon him a more than usual
share of the enemy's vigilance. He was surprised
when at Gainsborough by Lord Willoughby, of
Parham, and being, after a gallant defence, over-
powered and made prisoner, he was sent off to Hull
in a little pinnace. Unluckily, as it turned out,
a party of Newcastle's army under Sir Charles
Cavendish, happened to be in the neighbourhood,

THE GOOD EARL OF KINGSTON. 209

and the moment they heard of this disaster, pushed
forward at a rapid rate to his rescue. Coming up
at length with the boat, they demanded the libera-
tion of the prisoner, which being peremptorily
refused, they commenced a heavy fire from their
field-pieces, quite forgetting that the balls were
just as likely to strike their friend as theirenemies.
The moment the Earl was informed of this, he
hurried upon deck " to show himself, and to pre-
vail with them to forbear shooting ; but as soon
as he appeared, a cannon bullet flew from the
King's army, and divided him in the middle,
being then in the Parliament's pinnace, who
perished according to his own unhappy impreca-

no

LISNABEIN.

On the extreme verge of the county of Cork
where — separated only by a brawling brook — it
adjoins that of Waterford, lies the secluded valley
of Lis-na-brin. Commencing in a narrow defile
whose rugged sides and embosomed depths still
exhibit some of the finest specimens of primeval
timber in the kingdom, it gradual ly widens into
gentle slopes and level glades, as it approaches
the vale of the Bride, into which it imperceptibly
merges at the village of Carriglass. The last object
which marks its identity near this spot, is a gigantic
Oak connected by tradition with the name of Sir
Walter Raleigh, whose wide domains — the spoils
of the ill-fated house of Desmond — extended over
a vast tract of country in this part of Ireland. At
the period to which we are about to advert, the sun
of his meteor-like prosperity had long set, and of
the immense possessions with which the favour of
his Sovereign had enriched him not a vestige

LISNABRIN. 211

appears to have been retained. That he set very
little value indeed on his Irish principality, for such
in truth, it was, seems clear not only from the
short residence he made in that country, but from
the very easy terms on which he retained as
tenants, the original occupants of the soil ; and it
would have been well for the land of his short-lived
adoption, if the character of English landlordism
t.ien in its ominous infancy had been modelled on
the principles so humanely exemplified by him.
Among the residents on his lately acquired estates,
with whom he had to deal in his new character of
proprietor in fee, was the decayed remnant of a
once wealthy family, originally of Danish extrac-
tion, but reduced by successive revolutions and
forfeitures to a shadow of its former importance.
The last representative of this branch of the Cop-
pingers was, at the time we speak of, eking out an
obscure existence in the valley of Lisnabrin — sole
relic of the broad acres once held by his ancestors.
Hither as to a sure retreat he had betaken himself
amid the storms of civil war, and not unlike the
ostrich, which we are told fancies himself in security
when his head alone is concealed, here he doubtless
flattered himself that he would escape the last
visitation of utter ruin. Had concealment indeed
been possible no asylum could have been better
chosen. Accessible only by bridle paths from the

212 LISNABRIN.

upper end of the gorge, the site of his mansion,
which has only within a few years been replaced
by a modern structure, was screened on the side of
the more open country by a thick belt of forest
trees, apparently shutting out all approach, and
could be discovered only by those well acquainted
with the intricacies of the place. Within this
sylvan enclosure, however, a space of cultivated
land interspersed with well stocked pastures
of the richest verdure and fertility, afforded
an ample supply of all the necessaries of life to
the proprietor and the few retainers whose rude
huts lay scattered around. It does not appear
that any attempt was made by Sir Walter to
disturb the tranquillity of this specimen of Irish
life in the bush. On the contrary, by a deed still
in existence and bearing his autograph, possession
of the lands of Lisnabrin, with all its rights and
appurtenances were secured to Coppinger, under a
lease of 4000 years at the easy rent of 4d. an acre.
The grace of this concession was enhanced by
special marks of friendship and good will. Com-
miserating no doubt the fallen fortunes of his
tenant, who it would seem was a man of cultivated
mind and congenial manners, he distinguished him
by his friendship, and stood sponsor to his infant
son, who accordingly took the name of Walter.
Time rolled on and the fair inheritance thus

LISNABRIN. 213

happily secured to the Coppinger family passed in
due course into the possession of Raleigh's god-
son.

But a short respite however was allowed to the
troubles of the land. To the sweeping confiscations
of James succeeded the iron sway of Strafford, and
the horrors of the Cromwellian reign of terror
capped the climax of Ireland's misery. At the last
mentioned period. Walter Coppinger was far
advanced in years, and resided with his two daugh-
ters at Lisnabrin. He had for some years been a
widower, and having no son, and being exempted
by his age from taking any part in public affairs
he hoped like his father to weather the impending
storm in the shelter and seclusion of his native
glen.

The internecine war, however, then raging
through the length and breadth of the land, was
fast approaching these retired precincts. Occa-
sional fugitives from the routed ranks of the roy-
alists sought refuge in the recesses of Lisnabrin,
and scared it from its propriety by tales of slaugh-
ter and devastation. Cork, Yougball, Dungarvan,
Waterford, and Wexford, had successively fallen
into the hands of the invaders, and from the strong-
hold of Lismore, garrisoned by the forces under
Lord Broghill, continual excursions were made,
carrying fire and sword through the surrounding

214 LISNABRXN.

districts. Whatever dependence Cromwell might
have placed on his generals he was not a man to
delegate to others that which by possibility he
could do himself. In every spot of the localities
we have mentioned, as well as through the entire
of Leinster and Ulster, his name is handed down
as having been a personal actor in the minutest
incidents; and there is hardly a village, however
obscure, that has not its tradition of some charac-
teristic trait of this extraordinary man. A col-
lection of these well preserved reminiscences, with
which we may hereafter present our readers, would
form an interesting chapter, and might serve to
throw light on a character on which the dis-
quisitions of historical and biographical criticism
are still far from being exhausted. It was not,
however, the fate of Coppinger of Lisnabrin to
come into personal contact with the Protector.
Passing on to more important enterprises, the
latter committed to Ireton the task of completing
the subjugation of Munster, and well and sternly
were his orders carried out by this efficient deputy.
One fierce struggle, terminating as usual in the
rout of the royalist forces, extinguished the last
spark of resistance in the district to which we are
adverting.

The village of Conna, on the right bank of
the Bride, was the scene of this encounter. The

L1SNABRIN. 215

commanding position here occupied by the loyal-
ists under shelter of the old castle, which still
crowns the adjacent slope, and gives to the scenery
that stern historic character so full of interest to
the explorer of the picturesque in Ireland, ap-
pears to have inspired unwonted confidence ; and, as
the local traditions testify, the contest, maintained
to the last with the bravery of despair, was long
and bloody. As night closed in, however, the
combat was no longer doubtful; and no sooner
had the last scattered remnants of the vanquished
disappeared, than the parliamentary forces with-
drew to more desirable quarters.

That this movement, adopted no doubt on sound
military principles, was effected at a trifling ex-
pense of humanity, may be inferred from the
recorded fact of little or no provision being made
by the victors for their wounded, many of whom
were left to perish that night on the bloody field.
It could hardly be wondered at, if the ordinary
chances of survival in such cases, were in this in-
stance fearfully diminished by the strong proba-
bility that, in the "wild justice of revenge," a
speedy termination would be put to their sufferings
by the exasperated peasantry, who for purposes of
plunder, if not of vengeance might be supposed
to be the first visitants of the spot.

An incident, however, which we are about to

216 LISNABRIN.

relate, bears honourable evidence of the existence
at that time of better feelings among the rude class
than our impressions of the civilization of the period
would lead us to expect. Stealthily emerging from
their retreats under cover of the night, a party of
the routed fugitives returned to the scene of action,
and finding its stillness unbroken by any sound,
save the occasional groan of a dying man, they
cautiously ventured to thread their way among the
mangled heaps in search of their comrades and
friends. In the course of this anxious quest they
stumbled over the apparently lifeless corse of an
English officer, who by his uniform was of the
rank of Colonel. His broken sword and plumed
cap lay beside him, and the soil-stained appearance
of his accoutrements, as he lay weltering in a pool
of blood, attested the fierce personal encounter in
which he had fallen. As the spoils of the slain
were a legitimate prize to the first claimants, the
usual process of denudation and plunder was about
to take place, when the startling discovery was
made that a feeble remnant of life still lingered in
the supposed corse. Instantly abandoning their
first intent, and softened by a touch of humanity,
which, coupled with all the attendant circum-
stances, seems hardly credible, these rugged, and
as we should suppose ruthless riflers of the dead,
hastily constructed a stretcher, on which they

LISNABRIN. 217

cautiously laid the body of the wounded Colonel,
and thus bore him, in relays, a distance of. five
miles, to the Castle of Lisnabrin. The echoes of
that secluded spot had been startled throughout
the day with the fitful din of the Battle of Conna.
As these terrific sounds died away, and the issue
of the contest was ascertained, a brief interval of
calm succeeded to the agitation of the preceding
hours, and the household had retired to rest,
thankful for their escape from the horrors to
which they had but so lately appeared inevitably
doomed. Their uneasy slumbers, however, were
soon disturbed by glancing lights in the outer
court, and calls for admission, not readily granted,
it may be supposed, under the re-awakened appre-
hensions of the moment. At length, re-assured by
the well known voice of a faithful retainer, and
comprehending the purport of this nocturnal visit,
the gates were opened, and the party, hearing on
their shoulders the wounded Colonel, were ad-
mitted to the hall.

Faint from loss of blood, with closed eyes and
haggard countenance, his appearance indicated but
little chance of reanimation. The vigour however,
of five and twenty, a robust constitution, to say
nothing of the skill of his host — who, to do him
justice, appears for a private gentleman to have
been no contemptible leech — all these circum-

VOL. I. L

218 LISNABRIN.

stances, coupled with the probable fact that his
wounds were not of a very serious character, soon
effected a wonderful change in the state of our
patient-

Moreover in Lucretia and her sister, he had the
advantage of two such zealous and efficient nurses
as rarely fall to the lot of military gentlemen in his
position. Of these providential dispensations how-
ever our hero was for several days wholly insensible.
As a dreamy consciousness began gradually to steal
over his senses, and as in the stillness of his well
furnished chamber, awaking from a troubled slum,
ber, his eye would wander from one object to
another, none of them suggestive of any association
which could connect the present with the past ;
as from time to time, in reply to a half articulated
enquiry of " where am I?" a voice, to his ear of
unearthly sweetness, would whisper " Pray, don't
speak ;" — as anon, a graceful form would bend over
him, revealing glimpses of an angelic countenance,
and a hand of exquisite mould and whiteness would
present to his lips the restoring draught which to
his fevered palate tasted as nectar ; as all thess
bewildering and delicious influences flitted in
broken images around his pillow, it can hardly
be matter of surprise that he suffered his ima-
gination to be " lapped in elysium," and that he
dreaded by further questioning, to break the spell

LISNABRIN. 219

by which he seemed to have been transported to
some new and brighter scene of existence.

Not long, however, did these rainbow illusions
continue. The half emancipated soul, hovering as
it were, on the verge of its eternal home may be
supposed, when the bodily powers are suspended, to
catch on its unfledged wing a faint reflex from
those realms of spiritual brightness, into which, as
its native element, it seeks to launch itself: but
quickly recalled to its earthly tenement, and bound
anew by the ligatures of material organization, it
loses in an instant the ecstatic vision of the ideal,
and suddenly sees all things around resume their
wonted shapes and hues of sober and work-a-day
reality.

So it was with our convalescent. In a few
weeks the high-wrought imaginings of his fevered
fancy had given place to the plain prose of facts, and
he became aware of the very simple and intelligible
incidents which had led, as we have above narrated,
to his being the guest of Walter Coppinger of
Lisnabrin.

In return for this information, he imparted to
his host such particulars of his own history as
might be supposed calculated to interest these to
whom he was indebted for his life, and of these
snatches of autobiography the fair Lucretia, it
may be surmised, was not an inattentive auditor.

l 2

220 LISNABRIN.

His name it appears was Croker, of an ancient
family of Devon. A younger son, he had early
entered the army, where, under the auspices of
Ireton, he had obtained rapid promotion, and
while his sole personal object in coming to Ireland
was the thirst of military glory, his more provi-
dent relatives sought to make that circumstance
contributary to his being ultimately established
there as the proprietor of some of the for-
feited estates, at that time an exciting object of
cupidity to the junior members of the English
aristoeracy.

For what period Colonel Croker prolonged his
stay on this occasion at Lisnabrin, we are not
aware ; but our information warrants us in affirm-
ing that he did not take leave before he had made
such an impression on the heart of his gentle
nurse, Lucretia, as made it presumable that his
return at any future time would, by her at
least, be hailed with delight. On her sister too,
as well as her father, the commanding figure,
polished manner, and amiable disposition of the
young Englishman, had produced an effect pro-
portionately favourable ; and as these sentiments
were cordially reciprocated by him, mutual
pledges of the warmest regard were interchanged,
when at length, in obedience, to a peremptory
summons from his commanding officer, he re-

LISNABRIN. 221

luctantly tore himself from the embraces of his
new friends.

At the time we speak of, there existed in Lon-
don, an office, in which was kept a most accurate
register of all the Irish lands then in course
of forfeiture, and never in our day have the
purlieus of Downing Street been more persever-
ingly^besieged by eager place hunters, than was
this particular bureau, by those whose names
had been entered in the favoured list, as can-
didates for their share of the wholesale plunder
of the Sister Island. Among these not the
least active had been the relatives of our hero.
The brilliancy of his services, the wounds he
had received, to say nothing of the political
influence of his family, and the favour of Ire-
ton, formed indeed strong grounds of claim,
and on his arrival in London, he was pressed
by his friends to lose no time in urging his
suit for an immediate allocation of landed pro-
perty in Ireland. He accordingly waited in
person on the official in charge of this branch
of the executive, and on his name being an-
nounced, was forthwith ushered into his presence.
He could at once perceive, by the bland air and
oily suavity of the secretary, that his case had been
favourably disposed of. A strong curiosity seized
him to ascertain in what part of the Island his

222 L1SNABRIN.

future lot had been cast ; but all uncertainty on
this head was soon set at rest, when on unrolling
the title deeds then and there delivered to him, he
found, to his utter astonishment, that the lands
therein recited as thenceforth belonging to him
and to his heirs for ever, were no other than those
of Lisnabrin, including the adjacent townlands,
which constituted the whole remaining patrimony
of Walter Coppinger.

Recoiling with horror from the notion of re-
paying with expulsion from house and home the
honoured friend to whom he was under such signal
obligations, Croker's first impulse was to reject
the proffered grant; but a moment's reflection
convinced him of the folly of such a proceeding,
the immediate consequence of which would be the
transfer of the property to the next military
claimant, while the betrayal of his sympathy in
the misfortunes of a noted " malignant," would at
once compromise his loyalty, and mar his rising
fortunes. With the rapid decision belonging to
his character, he suppressed every indication of
his perturbed feelings, and with all the composure
he could command, withdrew as speedily as official
forms would allow, to ruminate on the strange
incidents of the day, and to solve the problem of
his singular destiny. In the mean time, the work
of confiscation was rapidly going on in Ireland*

LISNABRIN. 223

and the political economist of that day no doubt
argued as favourably of the introduction of a new
proprietary into that country, by the summary
means then in vogue, as do the state doctors of
the present time of the same process now in pro-
gress through the slower but no less sure agency
of the " Encumbered Estates Act." Not to dwell
on these somewhat disheartening juxtapositions
of a legislation which, as regards the sister island,
seems to have been for ever moving in a " vicious
circle," the dwellers in the old chateau of Lis-
nabrin saw one by one disappear from the county
records the time-honoured names of the few who
had escaped the exterminators of former periods,
and marvelled that they alone, by some unaccount-
able oversight, had remained unmolested. In this
pleasing illusion they were for a considerable time
suffered to remain. Exempted by the tranquillity
of the times from military duty in Ireland, Col.
Croker deferred from month to month his return
thither, and it was not until the intimation reached
him, that his absenteeism, appearing as it did, to
indicate an unbecoming disregard of the favour
recently shown him, would be soon disadvan-
tageously noticed at head-quarters, that he took
his final departure for the land of his adoption.
That no anti-Irish prejudice had caused him so

224 LISNABR1N.

long to defer this step, we may confidently assert ;
— the rather as an adequate reason for the delay
will readily suggest itself to every generous mind
in the delicate position in which the Colonel now
stood in reference to his friend and henefactor.
To oust him from his possession in the decline of
his days, and send him forth a pauper on the world,
was of course utterly beyond the reach of possible
contemplation. To obey the impulse of gene-
rosity, and cast into the flames the obnoxious grant,
would have been a course no less preposterous, as
it would have been the sure means of handing
over to the tender mercies of another grantee
the friend whom he was so anxious to save ; and
hardly less perilous to all concerned would have
been the medium course of temporizing with the
difficulty by abstaining from taking possession
under his new title, as the busy trade of the spy
informer was then in a flourishing state, and the
ever active agencies of jealousy and cupidity,
would infallibly have drawn the Protector's atten-
tion to this negative delinquency, and thus have
effectually compassed his ruin. But one alternative
remained, and to this Croker promptly made up his
mind. Taking leave of his family, he departed for
Ireland, determined to link his fate irrevocably with
a country endeared to him by the recollection of

LISNABRIN. 225

the noble traits of humanity to which he owed the
preservation of his life, and connected by still
dearer associations with the fondest visions of his
future existence.

In this agitating, but on the whole, pleasurable
excitement of contending emotions, he found him-
self, at the close of a summer's evening, about
twelve months after the period of his former visit,
wending his way along the valley of the Bride,
and approaching the ancient towers of Lisnabrin
by the very road along which he had been origi-
nally borne thither from the bloody field of
Conna. But in what different guise did he now
■enter the venerable fabric, and what a contrast did
the picture of his present reception exhibit to
that gloomy night-piece in which the same figures
were first grouped on our canvass ! The radiant
smile — the joyous welcome — the warm embrace —
now diffuse light and animation round that hall
which once reflected the lurid glare of the night-
torch on features of agony — attitudes of terror — ■
and a ghastly bier : and skilful, indeed, would be
the artist who could, in two such different com-
positions, introduce the same characters with a
chance of their identity being recognised.

Whatever of the romantic these volumes may
contain, we profess not to write romance. Neither
do we wish to indulge in those embellishments of

l 3

226 LISNABRIN.

amplification, which, without detracting from the
historic character of our " Anecdotes," might,
nevertheless, appear to trench on the domain of
fiction. We forbear, accordingly, to expatiate on
those details of which our materials are so sugges-
tive, but for which, we admit, we should have to
draw, rather on our imagination, than on our
authentic references ; — and adhering to plain mat-
ter of fact, we hasten to the conclusion of our
story.

It was several weeks before Colonel Croker
could make up his mind to reveal to his host the
altered circumstances under which he was now
the inmate of Lisnabrin. With his daughters, in-
deed, we may presume, that he had been more
confidential, and from the good understanding
which appears to have subsisted between them,
we may infer that his communications — whatever
they might have been — were not ill received. Be
this as it may, he felt that the time had arrived
when he ought no longer to delay putting an end
to the false position in which his silence — if far-
ther prolonged — would place all the parties con-
cerned. An opportunity, such as he desired for
the purpose of this necessary explanation, soon
presented itself. As he and his old friend were
sitting one evening, tete d, tete, over their wine,
the latter turned the conversation on the nu-

LtSNABRIN. 227

merous instances of confiscation which had re-
cently occurred in the neighbourhood, and ad-
dressing Croker, asked him if he could account
for the strange fact of his exemption from the
common lot. " I suppose," he added, " that my
advanced age, and, still more, the retired life
I have for many years led in this solitude, have
served to screen me so completely from observa-
tion, that my very existence, and the few acres
that remain to me, have been overlooked."

With all the tact and delicacy that the occasion
demanded, the Colonel proceeded to undeceive
his host. But when the astonishing fact was an-
nounced to him, that the title-deeds of Lisna-
brin, under a grant from Cromwell, were in
Croker's possession, all the deprecatory eloquence
of the latter failed to check the outburst of the
old man's indignation. Rising abruptly from his
chair, he was about to quit the apartment, for the
purpose, as he declared, of instantly withdrawing
from an abode in which he now discovered him-
self to be an intruder, when his companion, with
the most passionate entreaties, besought his pa-
tience for a moment.

"You greatly mistake, sir," he exclaimed,
" our relative positions. By a title far stronger
than that conferred by any parchment, you are
at this moment the arbiter of my destiny, and he

228 L1SNABEIN.

whom you call the Master of Lisnabrin stands a
suppliant before you."

To the increasing surprise of his auditor, he then
rapidly explained the singular fatality whereby
he had become the grantee of the estate, which
but for his acquiescence in its sequestration, would
ere now have passed to other hands. " In taking
this course, sir," he said, " I felt that I was but
discharging a filial duty ; and to your generosity
I now appeal for the realization of the pre-
sentiment. To you I owe my life. Render not
that boon valueless by denying what alone can
make it worth preserving. I love your daughter —
I offer her my hand — sanction our union, and
between father and son there can be no question
of divided interests."

However palpable to our readers may have been
the fact of the mutual attachment of Colonel
Croker and Lucretia Coppinger, it was a circum-
stance which had wholly escaped the notice of
her father, and his bewilderment at this unex-
pected "denouement" may be more easily ima-
gined than described. Indeed, astonishment for
a moment absorbed every other feeling; but as
his eye rested upon the manly figure and ex-
pressive countenance of the young Englishman,
and his mind gradually took in the generous scope
of his " foregone conclusions," the " hectic of a

LISNABRIN. 229

moment " gave place to very different emotions,
and a paternal embrace testified how effective had
been the appeal just made to him.

We might here close our narrative, but there
is one incident which we must not omit, as illus-
trating the manners of the times. Though the
younger of the two maidens had won Croker's
love, it was, nevertheless, for the elder he pro-
posed. The etiquette of the period required
that matrimonial promotion should go by seni-
ority, and dire would have been the affront had
any suitor to a noble house overlooked the pre-
rogatives' of elder sisters.

It was fortunate for our hero that no unhand-
some advantage was taken in this instance of his
courtly breeding. All claims were promptly and
generously waived by her " ainee " in favour of
Lucretia. She became the wife of Colonel
Croker, and the fair domains of Lisnabrin are
still in the possession of their lineal descendants.

230

THE DUEL BETWEEN THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON
AND THE EARL OF WINCHILSEA.

In 1829, great excitement existed in political
circles, consequent on the introduction, by the
Duke of Wellington's government, of the Catholic
Relief Bill. Among the stanchest opponents of
the measure was the Earl of Winchilsea, whose
feelings on the subject became so strongly excited
that he addressed a letter, on the 14th of March,
to the Secretary of the Committee for Establishing
the King's College, London, animadverting, in
marked terms, on the motives of the Prime Minister.
The passage which gave rise to the subsequent
proceedings, was in these words : —

" I was one of those who, at first, thought the
proposed plan might be practicable, and prove an
antidote to the principles of the London Univer-
sity. I was not, however, very sanguine in my
expectations, seeing many difficulties likely to
arise in the execution of the suggested arrange-

DUEL, &C, 231

ment ; and I confess that I felt rather doubtful as
to the sincerity of the motives that had actuated
some of the prime movers in this undertaking,
when I considered that the noble Duke at the
head of His Majesty's Government had been in-
duced, on this occasion, to assume a new charac-
ter, and to step forward himself as the public
advocate of religion and morality. Late political
events have convinced me, that the whole trans-
action was intended as a blind to the Protestant
and high-church party ; that the noble Duke,
who had, for some time previous to that period,
determined upon ' breaking in upon the constitu-
tion of 1688,' might the more effectually, under
the cloak of some outward shew of zeal for the
Protestant religion, carry on his insidious designs
for the infringement of our liberties, and the
introduction of Popery into every department of
the state."

This letter appearing in the newspapers, the
following correspondence ensued : —

(1.) From the Duke of Wellington to the Earl of
Winchilsea.

" London, March 16, 1829.

" My Lord,

" I have just perused, in the Standard
newspaper of this day, a letter addressed to Henry

232 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON

Nelson Coleridge, Esq., dated Eastwell Park,
March 14, signed Winchilsea and Nottingham;
and I shall be very much obliged to your lordship
if you will let me know whether that letter was
written by you, and published by your authority.
" I am, &c,

" Wellington

(2.) From the same to the same.

" London, March 18, 1829.
" My Lord,

" I wrote to your lordship, on the 16th,
a letter, of which I enclose a duplicate, as, not
having yet received an answer from your Lordship,
I am apprehensive that the original may not have
reached you, although I directed it to your house
in Suffolk Street. I am just going to Windsor
to attend his Majesty, but I shall be in town this
night.

" I am, &c,

" Wellington."

(3.) From the Earl of Winchilsea to the Duke of
Wellington.

"Eastwell Park, March 18, 1829.

"My Lord,

" The enclosed is a copy of the answer
which I returned, by this day's post, to your

AND EARL OF WINCHILSEA. 233

grace's letter which only reached me this morning.
I intend leaving this place for London to-morrow
morning, and expect to be at 7, Suffolk Street,
between four and five in the afternoon.

" I have, &c,

" WlNCHILSEA AND NOTTINGHAM."

(4.) From the same to the same.

" Eastwell Park, Ashford, March 18, 1829.

" My Lord,

" I have the honour to acknowledge the
receipt of your grace's letter of the 16th instant,
and I beg to inform you that the letter addressed
to H. !N. Coleridge, Esq. was inserted in the
Standard by my authority. As I had publicly
given my approbation and sanction to the esta-
blishment of the King's College, London, last
year, by his Grace the Duke of Wellington's
becoming a subscriber to it, I thought it incum-
bent upon me, in withdrawing my name, also
publicly to state my reasons for so doing.

" I have, &c,

" WlNCHILSEA AND NOTTINGHAM."

234 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON

(5.) From the Duke of Wellington to the Earl of
Winchilsea.

" London, March 19th.

" My Lord,

" I have had the honour of receiving
your lordship's letter of the 18th instant. Your
lordship is certainly the best judge of the mode to
be adopted of withdrawing your name from the
list of subscribers to the King's College. In
doing so, however, it does not appear necessary to
impute to me, in no measured terms, disgraceful
and criminal motives for my conduct in the part
which I took in the establishment of the college.
No man has a right, whether in public or in pri-
vate, by speech, or in writing, or in print, to in-
sult another, by attributing to him motives for
his conduct, public or private, which disgrace or
criminate him. If a gentleman commits such an
act indiscreetly, in the heat of debate, or in a mo-
ment of party violence, he is always ready to
make reparation to him whom he may thus have
injured. I am convinced that your lordship will,
upon reflection, be anxious to relieve yourself
from the pain of having thus insulted a man who
never injured or offended you.

" I have, &c,

" Wellington."

AND EARL OF WINCHILSEA. 235

Sir Henry Hardinge delivered No. 5, to the
Earl of Winchilsea, and was referred by his lord-
ship to the Earl of Falmouth. The following
memorandum is the substance of the communi-
cation made by Sir Henry Hardinge to Lord
Falmouth.

(6.) Memorandum of Sir Henry Hardinge.

'' March 19th, 8 o'clock, evening.
" Lord Falmouth having expressed a desire to
know the extent of reparation that would be ex-
pected, two suggestions, of what appeared to Sir
Henry Hardinge to be the most natural mode of
reparation, were drawn out, upon the distinct un-
derstanding that they were not made with a view
to confine Lord Winchilsea's explanation, either
as to the terms or manner therein stated, but as
suggestions as to the course which might be pur-
sued in bringing the matter to a satisfactory con-
clusion. Sir Henry Hardinge, therefore, on the
part of the Duke of Wellington, expects one
of the two following alternatives : — Either that
Lord Winchilsea should forthwith write to the
Secretary of the King's College, and express his
desire to withdraw his public letter, as one which
attributed motives highly offensive to the Duke
of Wellington, and stating also that, upon re-
flection he was not justified in attributing such
motives to his grace, and therefore expresses his

236 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON

regret at having done so; or, that Lord Win-
chilsea should forthwith write directly to the Duke
of Wellington himself, and make the same acknow-
ledgments to his grace, with a similar expression
of his regret for having attributed motives highly
offensive to his grace, relating to the occasion of
his grace having presided at the meeting of the

King's College in last (which motives

he is now sensible he was not justified in imputing
to his grace). In either case, it is expected that
a letter, so written, should be published by the
Secretary of the London College in the Standard,
being the same paper as that which contained
Lord Winchilsea's original letter.
" Thursday, half-past nine o'clock, evening."

" Friday morning, March 20. The paragraph
within crotchets was not desired to be retained in
the last interview with Lord Falmouth last night.

« H. H."

(7.) Memorandum of Lord Winchilsea.

" March 19.

" Whether I may determine to give an expla-
nation of my letter published in the Standard of
Monday last, will depend upon the correctness of
my belief that I had grounds for the opinions
complained of by the noble duke, as therein sup-
posed. I am ready to allow that I was mistaken

AND EARL OF WINCHILSEA. 237

in my view of the noble Duke's conduct, as ex-
pressed in my letter to Mr. Coleridge, on the 14th
instant, and to state my regret at having so ex-
pressed it, provided the noble duke will state on
his part, that at the time he came forward to pre-
side at the meeting for the establishment of King's
College, London, he did not contemplate the
measures which are now in progress for Roman
Catholic emancipation ; or to use Mr. Peel's
words, ' for breaking in upon the constitution of
1688 ;' but without some statement to that effect
from the noble duke, I cannot withdraw the ex-
pressions contained in the above letter.

"Winchilsea."

(8.) Memorandum of the Duke of Wellington.
" London, March 20th, 1829, in the morning.

" Sir Henry Hardinge has read me a memo-
randum written by Lord Winchilsea, and deli-
vered to him by Lord Falmouth, from which it
appears that his lordship is anxious that I should
justify myself from the charges against me con-
tained in his lordship's address to Mr. Coleridge,
published in the Standard newspaper. I may
lament that a nobleman for whom I feel the
highest respect, entertains a bad opinion of me ;
but I do not complain, so long as that opinion is
not brought before me. I cannot admit that any

238 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON

man has a right to call me before him to justify
myself from the charges which his fancy may
suggest. That of which I complain is, that the
Earl of Winchilsea and Nottingham should have
published an opinion, that I was actuated by dis-
graceful and criminal motives in a certain transac-
tion which took place nearly a year ago. His
lordship, unprovoked, has insulted me by stating
in writing, and authorizing the publication of,
this opinion. For this insult I believed, and am
not willing to part with the belief, that his lord-
ship will be anxious to give me reparation.

"W."

(9.) Memorandum of Sir Henry Hardinge.

" Friday, March 20.
" Sir Henry Hardinge delivered to Lord Fal-
mouth a memorandum, on the 20th of March,
from the Duke of Wellington, in reply to one
from Lord Winchilsea last night ; in the latter of
which it was proposed, as a preliminary to any
explanation, that the Duke of Wellington should
disclaim having contemplated the intentions attri-
buted to his grace by Lord Winchilsea, which
mode of reparation was considered inadmissible.
In the memorandum of the Duke of Wellington,
his grace states that his cause of complaint is in
the publication of opinions highly offensive to

AND EARL OF WINCHILSEA.. 239

hin. Whenever, therefore, any terms or mode of
reparation, which Lord Winchilsea may be dis-
posed to offer, are communicated to Sir Henry
Hardinge, he will make them known to the Duke
of Wellington, and inform Lord Winchilsea
whether they are satisfactory or not.

" Henry Hardinge.

" N.B. — The original of this delivered to Lord
Falmouth."

(10.) Memorandum, of the Earl of Falmouth.

" March 20, one o'clock.

" Out of respect for the Duke of Wellington,
Lord Falmouth has taken to Lord Winchilsea the
Duke of Wellington's memorandum, put into his
hands by Sir Henry Hardinge this morning at the
War-office, with Sir Henry's own note thereon.
In reply, Lord Winchilsea does not feel himself
in a situation to comply with the expectation
therein expressed, as to the withdrawal of his
public letter. Lord Winchilsea, therefore, desires
that Lord Falmouth will decline so doing on his
(Lord W.'s) behalf.

" Falmouth."
(11.) From Sir H. Hardinge to Lord Falmouth.

"21st March, two o'clock.

" My Lord,

" I feel it to be my duty, before I make
a final communication to your lordship, to ascer-

240 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON

tain, beyond the possibility of a doubt, that Lord
Winchilsea declines to give the reparation which
the Duke of Wellington considers himself en-
titled to receive. I am, my Lord, your obedient
servant. Henry Hardinge."

(12.) From Lord Falmouth to Sir Henry Hardinge.
" London, March 20, 1829, half-past three, p.m.

" Sir,

" In reply to your note, stating that you
wish to ascertain positively whether Lord Win-
chilsea declines to give the reparation which the
Duke of Wellington considers himself entitled to
receive, I feel myself unable to say more than to
refer you .to the note which I delivered to you, as
signed by him, in answer to the Duke of Welling-
ton's memorandum of this day ; and that if by the
word ' reparation,' any withdrawal of Lord Win-
chilsea's public letter, or expression of regret for
its contents, be expected, he does not feel himself
in a situation to comply with such expectation.
I am, sir, your obedient humble servant,

" Falmouth."
(13.) From Sir Henry Hardinge to the Earl of
Falmouth.
" 11, Whitehall Place, March 20, 1829.
"My Lord,

" I send your lordship a letter from the
Duke of Wellington to Lord Winchilsea. I com-

AND EARL OF WINCHILSEA. 241

municated to his grace the note of three, p.m.,
declining on Lord W.'s part to make any repara-
tion, or give any explanation, &c, of his lordship's
conduct towards the Duke of Wellington ; and,
in order to avoid the possibility of any mistake, I
repeat what has already been verbally arranged
between us, that the Duke of Wellington will be
at the place appointed at eight o'clock to-morrow
morning. H. Hardinge."

(14.) From the Duke of Wellington to Lord
Winchilsea.
"London, March 20, half-past six, p.m.

"My Lord,

" Sir Henry Hardinge has communicated
to me a memorandum, signed by your lordship,
dated one, p.m., and a note from Lord Falmouth,
dated three, p.m. Since the insult, unprovoked
on my part, and not denied by your lordship, I
have done everything in my power to induce your
lordship to make me reparation, but in vain.
Instead of apologizing for your own conduct, your
lordship has called upon me to explain mine.
The question for me now to decide is this — Is a
gentleman, who happens to be the King's minister,
to submit to be insulted by any gentleman who
thinks proper to attribute to him disgraceful or
criminal motives for his conduct as an individual ?

VOL. I. M

242 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON

I cannot doubt of the decision which I ought to
make on this question. Your lordship is alone
responsible for the consequences. I now call
upon your lordship to give me that satisfaction
for your conduct which a gentleman has a right
to require, and which a gentleman never refuses to
give. I have the honour, &c.

"Wellington."

(15.) From Lord Falmouth to Sir Henry Hardinge.
" London, March 20, 1829, half-past eleven, p.m.

" SlK,

" When I received the favour of your

note, with its enclosure, soon after eight o'clock

this evening, I had just sat down to dinner, and

being in company I could not read it without

exciting some suspicion, till some time afterwards.

I had then to find Lord Winchilsea. All which I

mention in excuse for delay, in case you should

think it of importance ; but I apprehend that,

after an arrangement made before five o'clock this

afternoon, his grace's letter to Lord Winchilsea,

calling upon him for satisfaction in the usual way,

was meant merely as a customary form on such

occasions. All matters will take place of course

to-morrow morning at eight o'clock, according to

that arrangement. I have the honour to be, &c.

" Falmouth."

AND EARL OF WINCHILSEA. 24>S

(16.) From Lord Winchilsea to the Duke of
Wellington.
" Suffolk Street, Friday night, eleven, p.m.
"My Lord,

" I have the honour to acknowledge the
receipt of your grace's note. I have already had oc-
casion to communicate to your grace, that, under
existing circumstances, I did not feel myself in a
situation to comply with what was required of me
in regard to my puhlic letter. The satisfaction
which your grace has demanded, it is of course
impossible for me to decline. I have the honour

to be, &c.

" Winchilsea."

The Duke of Wellington and the Earl of Win-
chilsea met at the place appointed (Battersea
fields), on the following morning. The parties
having taken their ground, Lord Winchilsea re-
ceived the Duke of Wellington's fire, and fired in
the air. After some discussion, the accompanying
memorandum was delivered by Lord Falmouth to
Sir Henry Hardinge, and accepted by Sir Henry,
as a satisfactory reparation to the Duke of Wel-
lington : —

Memorandum.

Having given the Duke of Wellington the
usual satisfaction for the affront he conceived

m2

244 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON

himself to have received from me, through my
public letter of Monday last, and having thus
placed myself in a different situation from that in
which I stood when his grace communicated with
me, through Sir Henry Hardinge and Lord Fal-
mouth, on the subject of that letter, before the
meeting took place, I do not now hesitate to de-
clare, of my own accord, that, in apology, I regret
having individually published an opinion which
the noble duke states, in his memorandum of
yesterday to have charged him with disgraceful
and criminal motives in a certain transaction which
took place nearly a year ago. I also declare that
I shall cause this expression of regret to be inserted
in the Standard newspaper, as the same channel
through which the letter in question was given to
the public."

A copy of the preceding correspondence having
been sent by Sir Henry Hardinge to the evening
papers of the same day, the following memoran-
dum was published by Lord Falmouth on Monday
the 22nd:—

" Lord Falmouth first became concerned in the
affair between the Duke of Wellington and Lord
Winchilsea shortly before he met sir Henry Har-
dinge on the subject, on the evening of Thursday,

AND EARL OF WINCHILSEA. 245

the 19th. Until that time, Lord Falmouth knew
nothing whatever either of the previous corres-
pondence, or of the publication which had led to
it, beyond having seen the letter in the Standard
newspaper. It may seem material to state, that
when Sir Henry called upon Lord Falmouth, at
twelve o'clock at night, with the proposal to omit
the words affixed to No. 6 in parenthesis, it was
after Lord Winchilsea's answer, No. 7, had been
shewn to the Duke of Wellington. This point is
not quite clear in the publication of Saturday.
Immediately after Lord Winchilsea had received
his grace's fire, and had fired in the air, Lord
Falmouth was the first to propose satisfactory
reparation for Lord Winchilsea's publication of
his opinion in the Standard newspaper. Lord
Falmouth distinctly declared on the ground, that
it never was a question with him whether that
publication was wrong, but merely whether Lord
Winchilsea was in a situation honourably to sub-
scribe to the terms proposed, after he (Lord
Falmouth, was requested to undertake the business.
Before the parties took their ground, Lord Fal-
mouth delivered a sealed letter, which he had
received from Lord Winchilsea on Friday night,
to Sir Henry Hardinge, who returned it after the
affair had been settled."

246

THE EAEL OF CHESTER.

Randle the third, surnamed Blundeville or
Blandeville, and by inheritance Earl of Chester,
was one of those characters that romancers delight
in, and which they most assuredly never equal
when trusting to their own unassisted imagina-
tions. He was a valiant and able soldier, for
though we find him always engaged in war, he
was seldom otherwise than successful ; he was an
admirable courtier, for we find him acquiring one
parcel of land after the other from the royal
bounty ; he was a devout Christian after the fashion
of his age, for he made a pilgrimage to the Holy
Land, and built and endowed abbeys ; and finally,
he must have been an excellent judge of fish, for
we see him giving the king a palfrey for a lamprey,
an act which might have excited the admiration of
a Lucullus, unless we ought rather to consider it
as a courtier-like way of making the king a
present.

Few in the rank of subjects have been more

THE EARL OF CHESTER. 247

highly allied, or have begun life under more fa-
vourable auspices. At a very early period of his
career, King Henry the Second gave him to wife
Constance, the widow of his fourth son, Geoffrey,
the daughter and heiress of Conan, king of Little
Britain. The regard he bore for his partial master
was upon his death transferred undiminished to his
son, Richard Cceur de Lion ; or, at least, he shewed
the same zealous attention to his interests ; when
John, taking advantage of his brother's absence in
a German dungeon, would have possessed himself
of the Kingdom, Randle joined Earl David, the
Scottish King's brother, and Earl Ferrars, and be-
sieged him in the castle of Nottingham, which he
had garrisoned for the better carrying on of his
treasonous designs. How it happened, we know
not, but Randle does not appear to have incurred
any very lasting resentment on the part of John
by this devotion to his brother, for when Richard
died we find him obtaining fresh grants and
honours from the favour of the new monarch, and
well by his services does he seem to have deserved
them. He was constantly employed in beating back
the Welsh, who in those days proved as dangerous
neighbours to England, as the Scots were at a later
period. On one occasion they took him so suddenly
by surprise, that he was fain to retreat before them
to his Castle of Rothelent in Flintshire, which

248 THE EARL OF CHESTER

they immediately besieged. Indignant at being
thus foiled by an enemy whom he despised for
their barbarism, however formidable they might
be from courage and numbers, he forthwith sent
ofF to his Constable of Cheshire, Roger Lacy,
surnamed Hell from his fierce spirit, and com-
manded him to collect what force he could on the
instant for his relief. The undaunted Hell lost
not a moment in executing a commission so
much to his taste. It happened to be a fair
time at Chester, which, of course, was the occa-
sion of the city being filled with a rout of fiddlers,
players, cobblers, and debauched persons, both
men and women. These he collected for the
nonce, and forthwith set out to the assistance of
his liege lord, when the Welsh taking fright at
the appearance of so numerous a host, raised their
siege, and fled without allowing themselves to
inquire into the real nature of the force so unex-
pectedly brought against them. For this good
service the Earl gave his Constable power over
all the fiddlers and shoemakers in Chester. The
latter retained to himself and his heirs the autho-
rity over the shoemakers, but conferred the au-
thority of the fiddlers and players upon his
steward, who at that period was Dutton of Dut-
ton. His heirs have retained their rights up to
the present day, in memory whereof upon the

THE EARL OF CHESTER. 249

feast of St. John the Baptist, the Lord of Dutton,
or his deputy, rides annually in procession through
the city to the church of St. John, it being then
fair-day, with all the minstrelsy of Cheshire playing
before him on their respective instruments. A
court is then held, which the latter are bound by
their charter to attend; nor have they any right
to follow their vocation within Cheshire, or the
city of Chester, except by order and license
given under the lord's hand, or that of his stewards
at this yearly renewal of such privileges.

Upon the death of John, the Earl still retained
his attachment to the house of Anjou, and had
a greater share than any other noble, if we ex-
cept Pembroke, in defeating the French dauphin
in his attempts upon the throne of England.
Nothing short of such determined zeal, assisted
by equal prudence and courage, could have up-
held the cause of Henry III., who was then no
more than a boy of nine years old, and even in his
riper years displayed but little capacity for
government. The barons in general were as
much averse to the son as they had been to the
father, and justly fearing that he would follow in
the same course of tyranny over the people, they
still continued in open revolt, and for a time were
determined to extirpate him and all of his blood.
With this view they countenanced the claims of

m3

250 THE EARL OF CHESTER.

the dauphin, Lewis, who thus supported, and
having received the homage of the Londoners,
marched with Count de Perche and a large body
of French troops, towards Lincoln. Faithful to
his principles, Randle convened such of the
northern barons as were friendly to the house of
Anjou, and taking with him the young Henry, ad-
vanced in the same direction. Lewis had arrived
there about four days before him. An inter-
view now took place between them in the great
cathedral, when the Count de Perche, irritated to
find how little was to be made of him, and des-
pising his small stature, exclaimed, sarcastically,
" Have we waited all this time for such a little
man?— such a dwarf?" To this the Earl indig-
nantly replied, " I vow to God and our Lady,
whose church this is, that before to-morrow
evening I will seem to thee to be stronger, and
greater, and taller, than the steeple."

In those days, when the feelings of chivalry
still prevailed to a considerable extent amongst the
nobles of either country, the defiance implied in
a speech of this kind was enough to set any true
knight in a blaze. The next morning, therefore,
Count de Perche, armed on all parts except his
head, and leaving Lewis in the cathedral, ad-
vanced at the head of his troops, and challenged
Randle to the combat. The latter had no sooner

THE EARL OP CHESTER. 251

received this invitation than he caused the castle
gates to be flung open, and sallied forth with a
fury that swept all before him. In a very short
time he had slain the Count, and many others,
who being of inferior note, the chronicler has not
thought it worth his while to record them. He
then rushed into the church, and having seized
upon Lewis, made him swear by the gospel'
and byjthe relics of saints then upon the high
altar, to evacuate England directly with his
followers; With these conditions, however un-
palateable, Lewis found himself obliged to comply ;
and, indeed, considering that he was a prisoner
in the hands of his exasperated enemies, while
his allies were fast falling from him and return-
ing to their natural allegiance, he had no cause to
complain of their being too severe.

When the Earl had thus fulfilled his vow of
making himself seem to the enemy " stronger,
and greater, and taller than the steeple," he sent
for the young Henry, who during the combat had
been lying safely in a cow-house that belonged
to Bardney Abbey, near Lincoln. He next "set
him upon the altar, delivered him seisin of his
kingdom, as his inheritance, by a white wand in-
stead of a sceptre, doing his homage to him, as did
all the rest of the nobility then present."

It might have been expected that such services,

252 THE EARL OF CHESTER.

so great in themselves and so critically timed,
would have secured him a high degree of royal
favour. Perhaps they might have done so, but
for the ascendancy acquired over Henry's mind by
the justiciary, Hubert de Burgh, who had for
some time exercised an undue influence in the
government, and made himself hateful to many of
the most powerful barons. The latter held
council together how they might best diminish the
power of the favourite, Randle being amongst
them, and animated by a spirit yet more bitter
than the rest in proportion to the greater firmness
of his character. They were on the very point of
breaking into open rebellion, when the Church
stept in, and by threats of excommunication
compelled them to give up their projects. Yet
even at this disadvantage, Randle, in the phrase
of the bowling green, contrived to turn the ball
his own way, and obtained from the fears or the
favour of the King a grant for life of a portion
of the honour of Richmond. This, however, will
scarce exculpate Mother Church, who acted much
more politically than gratefully when she directed
her thunders against a son so open-handed and so
dutiful. We have already observed upon the
exceeding bounteousness of his disposition towards
churchmen, and we have now to record a fresh
instance of it. The monks of Pulton found

THE EARL OF CHESTER. 253

themselves in constant danger from the irruptions
of the Welsh, who for the most part had very
little respect for the ecclesiastical immunities,
and considered it no more sinful to plunder a fat
abbott, than Robin Hood or any of his merry
foresters might have done. Now the monastery
of Pulton had been established on the condition
of the holy men praying for the souls of the
Blundervilles in general, but more especially for
the weal of our Randle's grandfather. Hence it
happened that when these prayers were frequently
interrupted, and in great danger of being broken
off altogether, a legend arose of the baron's spirit
having appeared in vision to his descendant :

" Go," said the supernatural monitor, " go to
Cholpesdale, near Leek, where there was formerly
a chapel erected to the Virgin. There found an
abbey of white monks, and to it remove the monks
of Pulton."

The next morning the earl communicated this
vision to the countess, who exclaimed " Dieux
encres" whereupon he caught at the omen, and
said the name of the place should be Dieulacres.

According to a common and well-known custom
of those days, Randle now took the cross and set
out for the Holy Land. Of what happened to
him in the course of his pilgrimage neither chro-
nicle nor legend tell us any thing, till we find him
on his return home. In the middle of his voyage

254 THE EARL OF CHESTER.

a furious storm overtook the vessel wherein he was
sailing. He demanded of the mariners how much
it wanted to midnight, and upon their replying,
" two hours," he said, " then labour 'till that time,
and I trust to God the tempest will cease." The
result, however, seemed to deceive his pious con-
fidence. As midnight approached, the storm
increased so much that the master of the ship came
down into his cabin to tell him that he would do
well in commending his soul to God, for they were
all like to perish. When he heard this he went
on deck, and by his example so encouraged the
seamen that they renewed their exertions more
vigorously than ever, though just before they had
been on the point of abandoning themselves to
despair. In short, to the great joy and wonder
of all, the storm suddenly abated as if by miracle.
The next morning it had subsided entirely, leaving
only a long heavy swell of the waters, while the
sky above was speckled with a few light clouds
that scarce interrupted the sun's brightness.

When the danger was thus over, and the ship
was again running before a favourable wind, the
master could not help asking, " why he would not
stir to assist them till midnight, telling him that
his help was then more than all the mariners in the
ship. Quoth he, because my monks and other
devout people, who are of mine and my ancestor's
foundation, did then rise to sing divine service ;

THE EARL OF CHESTER. 255

for that reason, therefore, did I put confidence in
their prayers ; and therefore my hope was that
God Almighty for their prayers and suffrages
would give me such strength as I had not before,
and assuage the tempest as I foretold."

How much of the earl's real character— his piety
and his dauntless spirit, are opened to us in this
apparently idle legend ?

Again the old chronicles desert us, or time has
made free with volumes that should have heen
more enduring. But if from this period they are
silent in regard to the deeds of the living Randle,
they have bequeathed to us some curious informa-
tion of what chanced to him when dead. While
he was yet upon his death-bed, a multitude of wild,
unearthly-looking beings passed the cell of a
hermit near Wallingford, who just then was en-
joying the evening air in front of his solitary abode.
The holy man was alike bold and curious, and
though their appearance promised nothing good,
he did not hesitate to stop them, and demand who
they were and whither they were going ? To this
the leader of the party replied with more courtesy
than might have been expected from one of his
semblance, " We are demons, and we hasten to the
death-trial of Earl Randle, to bear testimony to
his sins."

Far from being staggered by this reply, the
hermit besought his informant to return in thirty

256 THE EARL OF CHESTER.

days and acquaint him with the result. The com-
plaisant demon agreed to do so, and, faithful to
his promise, returned at the appointed time to say
that the earl had received sentence of condemna-
tion ; " but," added he, " the mastiffs of Dieu-
' lacres and the other monasteries yelled so loudly
when his sentence was executed, that the depths
of hell were scared at the noise, and Satan was
obliged to release him. No greater enemy than
Earl Randle ever entered the infernal dominions,
inasmuch as the orisons offered up for him were
the cause of thousands of damned souls being libe-
rated from torture, because they had been associ-
ated with him in these supplications."

And now having conducted the stout earl to the
grave, and even beyond it, little more remains but
to gather up those fragments which were passedover
in the course of our narrative. He was twice
married ; once, as we have already noticed, to
Constance, the widow of Henry's son, Geoffrey.
Being divorced from her he next took to wife
Clemence, sister of Geoffrey de Filgiers, in Nor-
mandy, and widow to Alan de Dinnam, his taste
seeming to incline to relicts. He died on the 28th
of October, 1232, when his bowels were entombed
at Wallingford.his heart atDelacres,and his body
at Chester, — "apud Wallingford deposita sunt
viscera sua, cor apud Delacres, corpus apud
Cestriam."

257

CALVERLEY, OE CALVERLEY

It is not quite two centuries and a half since
the tragedy I am about to relate from ancient
tradition was enacted ; and yet — to use no very
forced or ambiguous metaphor — time has already
begun to efface the record, or at least to render
some portions of it indistinguishable. As good
fortune, however, would have it, the mutilations
have occurred only where the) r were of the least
consequence, upon some of the detached outworks
as we may call them, and not upon the main body
of the building.

They who unite imagination to the love of
antiquity, and are familiar with the more perfect
remains of the olden time — if the term " perfect "
can with propriety be applied to that which is
already under the influence of decay — will easily
understand us when we attempt to illustrate this
part of our subject, by the example of those beau-
tiful ruins, of which, while the outlines still exist,

258 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

the details have perished, or are crumbling around
in huge disjointed fragments, amidst docks, and
weeds, aud nettles. There yet stand the walls, the
highly-ornamented gothic casements, the flying
buttresses, the winding staircases ; and yet, how
much — and at the same time how little — is wanted
to make up the ancient edifice. A groined roof,
a few windows of stained glass, an arch restored
here, a wall completed there, and the magnificent
creation of other days is once again before us.
Even so it is with many of the romantic and his-
torical traditions that belong to the same period .
they have shared a similar fate in coming down to
us, more or less mutilated by time, which, like
Saturn of old, or the double deity of the east, is at
once both creator and destroyer. Thus much by
way of preface — a short one, if not a necessary one
— for the romancer requires the preluding chord
or symphony almost as much as the singer does.

The family of Calverley — or, as it is sometimes
written, Caverley, perhaps from following a corrupt
pronunciation — may be traced up to a very early
period, their name having been derived from the
place wherein they settled — a township in the
West Riding of Yorkshire, about seven miles from
Leeds, and three from Bradford. According to
the custom of those very warlike and pious times,
when fighting and praying were looked upon as

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 259

the principal occupations of life, the Calverleys
made frequent donations upon a large scale to the
church, and died right gallantly in their harness ;
and yet neither the brave nor the bounteous of
that name have acquired for it so much celebrity,
as one who committed the most atrocious crimes,
and ended his career as a malefactor. Indeed, it
may be said that the saints and heroes of Calverley
are alike forgotten, or at best they are scantily
remembered in some dry antiquarian page which
few ever read, while our hero, Walter Calverley,
figures in blank verse, and has obtained to his
own share a much larger space in local history than
has been allowed to all the rest of his race from the
time when John, called Scoticus, or Scot, from his
country, married Lardarina, daughter of Alphonsus
Gospatrick, and, in her right, became Lord of
Calverley.

The father of Walter Calverley dying while the
latter was still in his nonage, the minor fell under
the guardianship of an old friend of the family.
How far this event influenced the future character
of the young heir, it would be hard to say ; his guar-
dian was according to all accounts a gentleman of un-
questioned worth and honour, yet it is seldom seen
that a stranger, even with the best intentions, fully
supplies the place of a deceased parent. However
this may be, Walter was to all appearance a youth

260 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

of the highest promise, sufficiently versed in the
accomplishments of the day, well-made, handsome,
and — what seems somewhat at variance with his
after life — of a steady and even grave demeanour.
Hence it was generally augured, that he would he
an honour to his father's house, and a credit to his
native county ; a point upon which provincials are,
for the most part, not a little jealous. Butsomefew,
who pretended to look more closely into things,
were far from entertaining the same favourable
opinions. They saw, or fancied they saw, without
exactly accusing him of hypocrisy, that his cha-
racter was the very reverse of what it seemed
to be ; he was, said they, like a river smoothed
over by the ice, but once let the sun rise in its
strength to melt the wintry mask, and they would
then learn how fierce a torrent it had concealed.

These forebodings, however, did not prevent the
heir to eight hundred a-year from being an accept-
able guest in most families, especially where
daughters and sisters were on hand, all as willing
to be married, as fathers, mothers, and brothers,
could be to get rid of them ; or, as they more
delicately phrased it, to see the fair ones settled
in life. Thus it fell out, that he was at once the
" invited and welcome guest to a gentleman of
cheefe note in his country," whose name the old
chronicler, so minute in other respects, having

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY 261

omitted to tell us, we shall for the sake of conveni-
ence, call him Sir Luke Escholt. This gentleman
had an only daughter, Emily, a consideration which ,
it may be supposed without any lack of charity, had
some weight in the more than usual kindness he
bestowed upon his youthful visitor, though per-
haps we should do him wrong in supposing that
he acted upon any definite scheme of entrapping
him into an alliance. On these occasions the mo-
tives to action are in a certain measure a secret
even to ourselves, and, while they most influence
our conduct, assume to our minds no precise form,
but hold on their course quietly, like the thin
stream, whose progress is only visible by the
fresher and deeper green of the herbage through
which it steals its way.

Both Emily and her young guest were at that
age when, unless the heart is previously occupied
by some other object, it requires little more than
constant intercourse to kindle the flames of passion ;
and this, in the present case, was not wanting.
Lonely walks together at early day, or when the
moonlight was on the glades, and the dance often
prolonged beyond the midnight hour, soon ripened
acquaintance into intimacy, intimacy into liking,
and, by a process as rapid as it was natural, liking
into love. All this was seen and approved of by the
' politic Sir Luke ; nor was he in the least surprised

262 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

when one day Walter, who had long before se-
cured the lady's assent, made a formal proposal to
him for his daughter's hand in marriage.

" My dear Walter," replied the old gentleman,
" so far as I am concerned, I may safely avouch,
there is not a man in the whole shire that I
would sooner have for a son-in-law than yourself ;
but you are not yet of age, or entitled to act in
this matter for yourself."

" I shall be in six months," interrupted Walter,
hastily — " in less than six months."

" Be it so : when that day comes we will resume
the subject, unless in the meanwhile you should
change your mind."

" Never !" exclaimed Walter,

" Young man," said Sir Luke, laying his hand
with much kindness on his shoulder ; " never is a
word that comes the readiest to the lips of youth
on these occasions ; but, credit my experience,
such nevers are too often of short date."

" Not with me, sir, I assure you, — on my life* —
on my honour. It is impossible for me to change,
on a subject like this."

" Well, time will shew, and to time we will
refer it. When you are of age — your mind still
holding— come back to us, and my consent will
not, I dare say, be wanting to your "wishes."

But Walter was not to be so satisfied. He pressed

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 263

his suit with all the ardour of a young lover ; and
although he could not extort from Sir Luke his
consent to an immediate marriage in private, which
might be afterwards publicly ratified at their own
convenience, he prevailed so far over his scruples
that he allowed them to exchange pledges, and
reciprocally bind themselves to each other. It is
even possible that his perseverance might have
overcome the old gentleman's last doubts and
brought about an instant union, could he have
remained there a few days longer ; but affairs of
importance made his presence in the capital indis-
pensable, and he reluctantly prepared to set out,
when, as the chronicler is careful to tell us, " the
virtuous gentlewoman danced a loth to depart on
his contracted lips ; " or, in plain English, the
damsel gave her lover a parting kiss ; the loth to
depart being a popular tune in the olden time,
and often used by our earlier dramatists to express
an unwilling separation.

The young heir had not been long in town be-
fore the wisdom of Sir Luke's doubts was made
apparent, and probably in much less time than
he himself had contemplated when he gave the
warning. Already in the third week of his abode
there, the " never" was forgotten — obliterated by
a single glance from a pair of bright eyes as com-
pletely as ever the returning tide of the sea washed

264 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

out the wrinkles from the sands, only to leave
other impressions in their place. In one evening
forgetting his rural beauty, he had fallen desper-
ately in love with Philippa Brooke, and the maiden
had listened, nothing loth, to his protestations,
for, as we before mentioned, Walter possessed all
those external qualifications which make young
ladies fain, the eyes and ears being generally their
counsellors in such matters without any reference
to the sober churl, reason. In brief space Philippa
was won ; and so far from the course of love never
running smooth, as the poet would have us believe,
it may be truly said that no ball ever rolled more
easily along a bowling-green, than did the ball of
love with Walter. Everything, in fact, tended to
help on his wishes ; his guardian chanced to be a
friend to early marriages, under the idea that they
settled a young man in life, and kept him out
of mischief; the lady moreover was his own
niece ; and the father saw no objection. When
therefore Walter, with his characteristic impa-
tience, pressed for the immediate celebration of
the marriage, few difficulties were thrown in his
way, except by the proverbial delay of the law-
yers, and even they were induced by certain
golden considerations to quicken their usual pace
— if not into a positive gallop, at least into a sort
of decent trot.

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 265

He thus got married before he had time to
change his mind, which with so fickle a temper he
most likely wquld have done, had he allowed him-
self, or had circumstances forced upon him, any
longer probation.

Even in those days, when conveyance from one
place to another was a work of much time and
difficulty, ill news was as proverbial for its speedy
travelling as it is amongst ourselves with all the
advantage of railways and electric telegraphs ; and
these tidings were not slow in reaching Emily.
They proved her death-warrant. Yet she indulged
in no passionate expressions either of grief or
anger on receiving them — it might have been
better for her if she had ; for wounds that bleed
inwardly are always the most dangerous — but
contented herself with saying, while a smile, lighted
up her pale features, " I entreat of God to grant
both prosperous health and fruitful wealth, both
to him and her, though I am sick for his sake."
Nor were these mere words, such as.escape from
weakness, or which pride uses when it would hide
a deeper feeling. She had loved as only woman
can love, and the cruel disappointment of her
dearest hopes had struck so home, that she faded
away like a stricken lily, and died with a rapidity
that might have well nigh seemed marvellous. It
is common, as we well know, to laugh at the idea

VOL. I. N

266 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

of broken hearts, in any case ; and, least of all,
from a cause so shadowy and undefined in its
nature as that which bears the name of love ; to
this it may be replied that our tale is no idle
fiction, but one of those dark and terrible pages
in the records of human life, which leave far
behind them the wildest dreams of the imagina-
tion ; when, moreover, we have discovered how it
is that the immaterial soul acts upon the material
body, in the general wear and tear of our earthly
trial, it will be time enough to discuss how the
heart may be broken, — and broken too by love.

It soon appeared that the friends, who grieved
for the premature death of Emily, grieved more
naturally than wisely. In a few short months,
almost indeed before they had laid the turf upon
her head, the character of Calverley began to
unfold itself in a way that made the grave seem a
happy refuge from his marriage-bed, and shewed
the living wife to be much more an object of com-
passion than her departed rival.

About a week after the marriage, which had
been celebrated in London, the young couple
took up their abode at Calverley Hall. It was
one of those late and beautiful autumns, when the
summer brilliance remains still undiminished, and
mingles strangely with the symptoms of decay that
are the peculiar characteristics of the later season.

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 261

To one who really loved a country life, the scene
around must have possessed the deepest interest,
and, though unused to anything of the kind, it
was not long before this was felt in its fullest
extent by Philippa, whose gentle and somewhat
romantic nature found an inexpressible charm in
the sight of this quiet landscape, which she was
henceforth, in right of her husband, to call her
own. She felt as if all her previous existence had
been a dream, and she was now for the first time
transferred to her native element.

For some few weeks, Walter appeared to share
in the feelings of his beautiful bride ; but then,
with as swift a transition as a northern winter
bounds into spring, a change took place with him,
this better feeling turning into discontent, not to
say disgust, and an unappeasable desire for plea-
sures of a more exciting kind. The very gentle-
ness of Philippa had become tameness and
insipidity. In consequence he ran into such riot
and excesses of all kinds, that he found himself
compelled, first to mortgage one part of his estate,
then another ; then he incurred debts, and, finally,
he involved some of his best friends in his diffi-
culties, by persuading them to become bound for
him when his own name had sunk so low in
worldly estimation that it would no longer obtain
him credit. This, of course, had not been done

268 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

all at once, or even in a very short time ; rapid as
is the descent to ruin, it took about four years to
bring him to this pass, which, however, when it
did come, effectually provided for his future
moderation by cutting off all the means of extra-
vagance. There was an end to riot, since the
sources that fed it were drained and dried up ; the
companions of his prosperous hours as naturally
falling away from him, as the leaves fall from the
trees in autumn. But the moral and physical
abstinence forced upon him by this decay of his
fortunes, instead of ameliorating his heart, only
soured his temper ; he grew morose and sullen,
and even savage, much, to the grief of his wife,
who still loved him tenderly in spite of all his
follies. For a long time her fear of him kept her
silent ; at length, in her anxiety to relieve his
distress of mind if possible, she took courage,
and resolved to try to heal those mental wounds,
that from day to day were getting worse, and made
him as painful an object to others as to himself.
But all her efforts proved unavailing ; the only
result was that her rapacious husband, availing
himself of the gentle affection of his wife, obtained
possession of all her jewels, and at length insisted
that she should sell her dowry also. Nor did he
at all attempt to gild over this proposal by affecting
any intention of using the money, when obtained,

OALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 269

for good or useful purposes ; on the contrary, he
plainly told her that he loved his own pleasures
beyond any other consideration, and intended to
employ it in maintaining them. Bitter as the
insult was, Philippa would have cheerfully yielded
to the sacrifice demanded of her, but the interests
of her children would be deeply involved in it,
and it required all her strong sense of duty
towards a husband, and those lingering remains of
affection, which, when once sown in a woman's
bosom, is seldom wholly eradicated, to conquer
her reluctance to thus depriving them of their
natural inheritance. She did, however, bring
herself even to this point, and as usual submitting
her will to his commands, went to London for the
purpose of disposing of her dowry. Upon
arriving there her first visit was naturally to the
uncle who had formerly been her guardian, and
had discharged the office both with kindness and
the strictest regard to his ward's interest. The
old man received her with unabated affection,
though the scrutinizing look with which he
examined her ' after the first hearty salutations,
brought the blood to her cheeks and even made
her tremble.

" How is this, my love?" he began; " you have
grown thin — you look ill. I have heard many
unpleasant rumours, as if your husband did not

270 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

use you well, and there is something in your pale
face that confirms them."

"Mere slanders, dear uncle, I assure you;
Walter is ever kind to me — most kind."

" I am glad to hear it — marry, a plague upon
those lying tattlers, who must needs spread such
false reports, for no good as it seems to themselves,
except it be the pleasure they find in doing harm
to others. But, however, there is some excuse —
some shadow of an excuse, I should rather say —
in the present case; for I suppose all these fine
tales of neglect and cruelty, and what not, have
emanated from his creditors, a class of folks that
seldom speak well, or think well, of those who
owe them money."

" I do not believe he is in debt — that is, so very
much in debt," replied Philippa, correcting herself,
in the sad conviction that her husband's extrava-
gance and consequent difficulties were too much
a matter of notoriety to be glossed over. Most
certainly her uncle was not deceived even by this
qualified denial ; for he shook his head, exclaiming
"Not so much in debt, say you? if you really
believe that, it's plain your husband does not let
his wife into all his secrets — few husbands do, —
but I suspect you are playing the good housewife
in this matter, and throwing a veil over Walter's
follies, just as you would hide a stain or a darn in

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 271

your best carpet. "Well, I don't so much blame
you for that; and as it seems he uses you well, I
will set off his kindness against his follies, and see
what can be done for him. I shan't part with
you, though, for the next month or so, — count
upon that, niece Philippa, as surely as you do
upon the snows of winter ; indeed, it may take so
long to arrange things for Walter in the way that
I could wish. But mind, you are not to give him
the slightest hint of my purpose till all is settled;
nothing I dislike so much as tantalizing any one
with hopes; if the thing promised is really got, it
loses half the pleasure it would otherwise bring
from having been expected and waited for; and
if it fails, why then there's disappointment added
to the annoyances of suspense. So, woman though
you be, you must for once hold your tongue — all
saws, proverbs, and adages to the contrary not-
withstanding."

" Rely upon me, dear uncle ; since such is your
pleasure, I will not breathe a syllable of your
kind intentions to Walter, till you shall bid me."

" And that may be sooner than you expect —
nay, for aught I know when you go back to the
country this same secret may be ripe for telling.
In the meanwhile, rest assured I will take such
order for Master Calverley as shall continue him
in as good estate as the best of his ancestors."

272 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

While Philippa was thus busy in endeavouring
to restore the broken fortunes of her husband he
was no less busy in dissipating the produce of the
jewels she had given him. Riot again filled his
sails; and the old companions returned with the
seeming return of his prosperity, but ready as
before to take wing the moment his means of
entertaining them should be exhausted. The
supply being moderate where the profuseness was
so unbounded, that moment was not long incoming;
and when it did, he began to curse his wife for her
protracted absence, though till now he had scarcely
given her a thought ; or if he did, it was only to
congratulate himself that she was away, and to
wish he could as easily get rid of her altogether.
The feeling of hatred he now entertained for her
soon extended itself towards the children; for it
is astonishing with what frightful rapidity these
ulcers of the mind will spread when once they
have been allowed to establish themselves. So
intense became his aversion to his whole family
that he was no longer able to throw a decent veil
over it, but must needs proclaim it to the world ;
and on one occasion this led to a hostile encounter
with a neighbouring gentleman, who had courage
to defend the innocent and absent wife, from the
base calumnies of her husband. In the duel, Cal-
verley was severely wounded in the arm, and he

CALVERLEY OF CALVEKLEY. 273

had scarcely regained the free use of the injured
limb, by the time Philippa returned from London,
never doubting for a moment that the delight she
herself experienced from the result of her journey,
would find an immediate echo in the bosom of her
husband. She was, however, soon to learn the
fallacy of this expectation. His first greeting was
— " What ! hast brought me the money ? is your
land sold, and at a good rate ? Quick ; why dost
not answer me ? you have not come back empty
handed — death and darkness ! if you have "

" My dear husband "

" Dear me no dears '.—the gold — the gold, I say
let me hear it ring, let me see it sparkle ! I have
lost blood enough through you, she-wolf and devil
that you are, and 'tis your gold must pour fresh
life into my veins. Why, how the fool stares !
Do I carry an evil eye in my head that you stand
there gaping as if I had bewitched you."

"You terrify me, Walter."

" I shall terrify you more, presently, if the gold
is not forthcoming. I hunger for it — I thirst for
it, so produce your money-bags, and lose no more
time in talking. I'd as leave hear the raven croak
from the hollow oak yonder, as list to that tongue
of yours."

It was with some difficulty that the terrified
Philippa could contrive amidst this torrent of

n 3

274 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

threats, questions and reproaches, to slip in an
explanation of what had passed between herself
and her uncle. Much to her surprise, as she pro-
gressed in her tale, the brow of Walter, which had
been dark enough before, grew black as the blackest
midnight. Seeing that she was giving some new
offence, though unable to imagine what it could
be, the glibness with which she had set out very
soon failed her, and her speech became more and
more confused every moment, till at last she was
brought to a sudden and complete stand-still.
Her silence was the cue for Walter to burst out in
a greater rage than ever. Spurning the poor
creature from him with his foot, he cried in a voice
of thunder, "do you say this to me? — to me,
Walter Calverley, of Calverley, whose fathers had
name and estate in the land when your beggarly
race was never heard of — was it for this you went
to London ? — to complain of me, God wot, to your
fine friends — to tell them how your husband having
spent his own had now a mind to your dowry ?
aye — and will have it too — do you mark that?
— will! or he'll do such things as won't be
forgotten in a hurry."

" Indeed, dear Walter "

" Indeed, dear devil ! — it won't do. 'Sdeath
and darkness ! think you I'm such an ass as to
put my head under your belt ? to be at the beck

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 275

and call of these same mighty friends of yours —
pick up the crumbs that fall from their tables —
stand cap in hand to take their orders. — Woman ! "
he said, dropping his voice to its lowest yet deepest
tones, his whisper being more terrible than his
former violence — " woman, I'd kill you— kill you,
ere I'd see that day."

Shocked and terrified as Philippa felt at such
treatment, it was not in her gentle nature to reply
to it with anything like harshness. She endea-
voured to take his hand, and he snatched it from
her she knelt to him, and he was again about to
spurn her with his foot, but there was something
so mild and loving in the dove's eyes that were
upturned to him, something so inexpressibly sweet
and winning in the sad smile that played about her
lips as made him hesitate to give the intended
blow. For a moment, at least, the demon within
him had lost his power. There was even an ap-
proach to tenderness in the regards he threw upon
the gentle suppliant, and he pressed his hand pain-
fully to his brow, like one who is endeavouring in
the whirl and trouble of his brain to recall some
forgotten idea. Philippa saw with the quick
apprehension of a woman the better change that
had thus come over him, and again attempted to
take his hand, which he no longer withheld, though
he rather abandoned than gave it to her.

276 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

" Dear Walter," she said, " let me implore you
to lay aside all these doubts, as wronging the true
love I always have had, and always shall have for
you. Heaven knows the words I speak have no
fashion of untruth ; my friends indeed are truly
possessed that your lands are mortgaged ; they
know to whom and for what ; but I entreat you to
believe that it was not from me that they had the
knowledge. For any difference betwixt yourself
and me — which would have more offended them
than the mortgaging of your lands — I protest to
you as yet they do not even suspect such a thing,
having my assurance to the contrary."

"Woman!" exclaimed Calverley, "this will
not pass with me ; I am not one to accept of fair
words for foul deeds, or for the doing nothing.
Why sold you not your dowry as I bade you, amd
as you promised ? "

" Because — it might be the error of my judg-
ment — but I thought there was now no need of
such a sacrifice, to the injury of our dear children,
Who should inherit the land after me."

" No need ? " thundered Walter.

" I must pray your forgiveness, dear Walter, if
I have been wrong ; but indeed, it so seemed to
me. My uncle has promised — and he is not a man
to break his word when once given — he has pro-
mised to release you from all your difficulties, and

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 277

to set you in a higher estate than ever, if you will
only submit to be guided by his counsels."

There was nothing in this to offend — nothing,
in fact, but what ought to have conciliated the most
angry spirit, if rightly taken : and yet, innocent as
the speech was, it brought back Walter's evil
mood. But so it always is when reason and reli-
gion yield up the guidance of the human heart to
passion ; we know as little what may be the next
temper of the person so impelled, as we can guess
where the leaf will fall that we see carried away
by the whirlwind.

Fortunately at this crisis a gentleman from
Cambridge sent in to desire a private interview.
That he would have cruelly misused her in his
then state of mind was most certain, and well if
he had not proceeded to worse extremities. A
parting blow, so violent as to fling her against the
opposite wall, with the blood spurting from her
face gave sufficient proof of what might have been
expected, had the interview been continued only
a few minutes longer.

The visitor, who now introduced himself, proved
to be a Fellow of Saint John's College, and after
the first brief greetings he entered upon a subject
least of all calculated to soothe the excited spirit
of his host. He had come on the part of Calverley's
younger brother, a student at St. John's, and

278 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

universally held in the highest regard, both by
equals and superiors, for his many excellent qua-
lities. This young man had become security for
Walter in a bond for a thousand pounds, which
being forfeited, the creditor had entered up judg-
ment and flung him into prison, to the utter ruin
of all his prospects in life if he did not obtain an
immediate release. The hardship of the case was
evident, as well as that heavy scandal would fall
upon the principal for neglecting to pay the bond
and thus causing his brother's ruin, all of which
the kind mediator did not fail to lay before him in
the liveliest colours. Walter at once saw how the
odium of such an affair was likely to blacken
his character with the world, already black enough.
It might be too that he was moved by affection for
his brother, for in the worst nature there is gene-
rally some redeeming goodness, as, in the most
barren desert, spots are sure to be found of green
trees and fresh waters. With a°patience quite
foreign to his usual habits, he listened to the
admonitions of the stranger, although urged with
no little warmth ; and when the latter ended by
demanding a categorical reply, he assured him that
he was not only sensible of the wrong he had done
his brother, but would take instant order for re-
pairing it to the very utmost.

" Be pleased," he added, " to walk for a short

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 279

space only about my grounds, while I look to what
is necessary on this occasion ; you will, I think,
find enough to amuse you for the time I shall
require ; and yet farther to shorten it, my servant
will bring you refreshments in the conservatory, a
place that many visitors have thought worth seeing.
My brother shall not be in prison many days — nor
even hours beyond what may be necessary for your
journey home again."

The gentleman thanked Walter with much
cordiality, and assured him that in fulfilling so
natural an obligation he would not only content
his own conscience, but greatly advance his repu-
tation with the world.

" For myself," added the worthy collegian, " I
shall account my pains in the business more richly
recompensed by this prompt consent, than if I had
obtained an award in a suit of my own to double
the amount."
Upon these terms they parted for the present.
Walter now retired to a distant gallery, that he
might consider in quiet what it were best for him
to do. But the external repose failed to com-
municate itself to his mind. Whenever he would
have turned his thoughts to the one point in ques-
tion, the deeds of the past rose up like spectres, and
mingled wildly, as in some mad dance, with his
reflections on the future, until he knew not what

280 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

he thought, or whether he thought at all. It was
utter darkness and confusion within him, idea
crossing and jarring with idea, as wave meets wave
when tide and wind are in opposition ; at one
moment he was all remorse, at another vindictive
rage — now tears, now execrations — this moment
he reflected with horror on the ruin and misery in
which he had involved his wife and children, the
next he cursed them as the causes of all he had
suffered, or had yet to suffer, and the prospect did
indeed loot gloomily enough. If that state of
mind, wherein a man has lost all mastery over his
thoughts, be really madness so long as it lasts, then
was Walter, in good truth, mad as the wildest poor
creature that ever howled to the full moon ; and
though it is the custom to talk of crimes committed
in cold blood, such things must be reckoned among
the rare occurrences of an age.

Exhausted by this inward strife, as indeed the
firmest brain and the stoutest heart must soon have
been, he had sunk into a window-seat, near to
which his eldest son was playing. At first the
little fellow, on seeing his father where he had
not expected to find any one, appeared half inclined
to retreat. He drew back a few paces towards
the door, still keeping his eye fixed upon Cal-
verley, and wondering that he did not speak : but
when this had continued some minutes, curiosity

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 281

prevailed so far over other feelings, that he made a
timid advance to the centre of the room, and then
again halted. Still no notice was taken of him,
and encouraged, instead of being daunted, by what
might have seemed more likely to have produced
the latter effect, he stole softly forward, and, taking
his father's hand, said, " O, papa ! how your hand
burns ! "

What a strange thing is the human heart. The
gentle voice of the child, which might have been
expected to soothe his troubled spirit, as David's
harp stilled the demon in the breast of Saul, had
just the contrary effect ; it lashed him into his
former fury, and seizing the terrified boy by the
throat, he exclaimed, " What devil has brought
you hither ? is it to tell me that you must soon
starve, and that I have brought you to this pass ?
Why, fool, I knew it all without your telling me ;
I know how you will beg on the highways for a
penny, and cry, God bless you, sirs, for a crust of
mouldy bread, or filch the gold from some rich
man's pocket — aye, that's the more thriving trade ;
better steal than beg. But have a care, young
sir; many a man steals his own halter. They'll
hang you if they catch you ; and there 's an old
prophecy that one of the name of Calverley shall
wear a hempen collar. By Heavens ! they shall
not say it of you, though."

282 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

The glitter of the steel, which Walter drew
forth as he said this, filled tbe child with a vague
apprehension of something terrible, though he
knew not exactly what, and he began crying and
struggling to get away from the clutch of his
father.

"Poor worm!" exclaimed Walter; "it's all
in vain : the bird would as soon find pity from the
hawk that has once pursued her. But kiss me
first — kiss me, my boy. Why your lips are cold
already. There 's a brave boy."

And with these words, having kissed the child
repeatedly with a sort of frantic affection, he
plunged the dagger into his bosom, with so true
an aim that the blow cleaved his heart. But no
natural fear nor remorse came upon him when he
felt the victim lying a dead weight upon his arm,
and saw the little head hanging down, its beautiful
bright locks all bedabbled with blood. On the
contrary, the sight of the crimson stream appeared
to have the same effect upon him that it has upon
the bull, rousing him to a higher pitch of fury
than before, and making him look eagerly around
for another sacrifice. " There is more yet of the
brood," he exclaimed; "little use in crushing one
snake, if we let the rest live. Bastards all — the
raven never yet was father to the dove. And say
it were not so — say that it is the blood of Calver-

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 283

ley which flows so lustily — what then ? the
brother, who has lain under the same heart with
me — who has drawn life from the same bosom,
must not waste his young days in a prison. I
will clear away all obstacles between him and the
estate — myself the last. Yes, I swear it, brother,
by everything that man most loves, or hates, or
fears, you shall be lord of Calverley ; and that you
may be so, to work — to work — to work."

In this desperate mood he hurried with the
dead child in his arms to Philippa's bed-room,
where she lay asleep, exhausted by recent illness.
A maid servant, who watched for her waking, was
nursing a younger boy by the fire. Upon seeing
her master rush into the room, his face pale as
death, his hands and clothes covered with blood,
and the murdered child in his arms, she started
up with a cry of horror. Walter immediately
dropt his burthen, and catching the other child
from her, a struggle ensued between them, during
which he inflicted several wounds, only half parried
by her efforts to intercept his blows. Finding
the strength of the woman likely to prevail over
him, for she was young and powerful, while he
was feeble by nature, and still more so from dis-
sipation, he grasped her by the throat so tightly
that she was forced to let go the child, when, by
a last exertion of his strength, he managed to fling

284 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

her down the stairs. The noise of her fall awoke
Philippa, who had hitherto slept through the
scuffle, not soundly indeed, but in that broken
slumber, in which tbe near reality makes itself
heard and seen in the sleeper's dreams, though
perhaps distorted, and mingled with things foreign
to it. The first impulse of maternal instinct led
her to catch up the wounded child, that lay moan-
ing heavily upon the floor ; but Walter, who, after
flinging the servant down stairs, had turned back
to complete his bloody work, made a sudden dart,
and tried to wrest it from her. This occasioned a
second struggle no less eagerly maintained than
the former had been, in which the mother received
several stabs intended for her child, when at last
she swooned away from fright, exhaustion, and
the loss of blood.

Not for a single moment did Walter pause to
gaze upon this horrible scene. Yet it was no
regret for what he had done, no sympathy with
the murdered, nor any fears for himself, that made
him fly as if pursued by some demon ; he recol-
lected that he had a third child at nurse about ten
miles off, and in the fever of his insanity, he
conceived that neither his revenge for his wife's
supposed unfaithfulness, nor his desire to help
his brother could be carried out, so long as one of
his family was living. Down the great staircase

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 285

therefore he might almost he said to fling himself,
in the hope that his extraordinary speed would
outrun the news of what had just happened ; but
he suddenly found himself brought to a halt at
the bottom, by the servant whom the noise had
brought there, and who was now listening to the
•maid's story.

" Oh, sir ! what have you done ? " exclaimed
the man, stopping him.

" Done ! " replied Walter, " that which you will
never live to see me repent of."

With this, he aimed a blow at him with the
dagger, which being dexterously warded off, they
closed, and he had the good fortune to fling his
adversary, but not before he had so mangled him
with his spurs in the course of their short wrest-
ling, that, when once down, the poor fellow lay
rolling upon the ground in agony, unable to get
up again.

In his way to the stables, whither he now
hastened, he was met by the gentleman from
Cambridge, who, wondering at his strange plight,
and not without some alarm, hoped that nothing
unpleasant had happened.

" Oh that" replied Walter, " is as men shall
see and understand things; for, took you, sir,
what shall make some laugh shall make others
weep : and again, that which some shall deem

286 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

well and wisely done, shall to others be as a sin
and a stumbling-block. But beseech you, sir, go
in, where I have taken orders for my brother's
business, and will presently resolve you of that
and all necessary matters."

The collegian, though unable to comprehend
the secret meaning of his words, and suspicious of
evil, went in as he had been desired, without at-
tempting to detain his host by farther questions.
Here, however, he found an ample comment on
the text that had so much puzzled him. The
floor covered with blood, the children and their
mother to all appearmce dead, the serving-man
still groaning, and unable to move, from the rend-
ing and tearing of the spurs, formed a key to the
riddle, that hardly needed any help from the ex-
planations poured in upon him from all sides, for
by this time the uproar had collected the whole
family, So completely, however, was every one
occupied in telling or hearing, wondering or con-
jecturing, that none thought of pursuing the
assassin, till it was suggested by the visitor, and
then it would have been too late to prevent far-
ther mischief, had not Providence interfered.

Fully resolved to complete his bloody work by
the murder of his remaining child, Calverley set
off without the loss of a moment, sparing neither
whip nor spur by the way, and was already near

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 287

the spot, when his horse stumbled and threw him.
Before he could recover his feet and seize the
bridle again, the affrighted animal started off.
This gave the advantage to his pursuers, who,
while he was slowly limping along from the effects
of his fall, overtook him, and, after some opposi-
tion on his part, carried him before Sir John
Saville, at Howley, one of the Magistrates for the
West Riding, Great was this gentleman's sur-
prise at seeing a person of Calverley's name and
estate in the county brought before him on a
criminal charge, and much was it increased when
the collegian, as the highest' in rank of the party,
and the most capable orator, narrated all that he
had just heard or seen, and referred to the testi-
mony of the actual eye-witnesses for confirma-
tion. During the recital the magistrate could not
so far command his feelings, as not to give from
time to time unequivocal signs of them by looks
and even by broken words, and when the accusers
had brought their several versions of the affair to
an end, there was as much compassion as there
was horror in the manner of his address.

You have heard all this, Master Calverley ;
have you anything to say in reply ? Can you deny
the whole, or any part of it ? or, if true, what
cause, — what motive ? — gracious heavens ? it is
almost too horrid for belief; and you, whom I

288 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

have known from a boy! Well for your poor
father that he did not live to my years. Surely
you must have been mad with wine at the time,
and repentance of the deed has sobered you
again."

" Repentance," said Walter, sullenly ; " I re-
pent of nothing but that I did not kill the other
bastard brat."

" Why, Master Calverley, it is your own child
you are defaming, your own wife you are slander-
ing. Are you man, or devil ? "

" You asked the question, and I answered you.
I can be silent, if you like that better."

■' I should like best to hear you reply honestly
and truly, yet in a manner beeeeming your condi-
tion, which may not harden the hearts of men
against you. Was this deed the devil's instigation
at the moment, or is it long that you have enter-
tained the idea of it ? "

" So long that I only wonder it was not done
and forgotten by this time."

" And what moved you thereto ? "

" I have already said it ; but you do not like
the phrase, and so I have the less occasion to re-
peat it.'

After a few more questions, which failed in
eliciting any fresh matter of importance, he an-
nounced his purpose of sending Walter to the new

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 289

gaol at Wakefield, the plague happening just then
to rage at York with much violence. For the
first time the culprit gave some signs of human
feeling, and asked " if he might not be permitted
to see his wife ?"

" She is too sorely wounded, as appears by the
witnesses, to come to you ; and Calverley, you
well know, is in the opposite direction to "Wake-
field."

" Sorely wounded !" repeated Walter, in the
tone of one who hears evil tidings for the first
time — " sorely wounded ! and perhaps dying ! —
you spoke it truly, Sir John ; I have been mad —
or it may be I am mad now — I have done enough
to make me so."

The thrill of horror that went through him as
he said this, communicated itself to all around.
Sir John, in particular, was deeply affected. He
turned to Sir Thomas Bland, who was also in the
commission of the peace, and had dropt in during
the examination.

"How say you, Sir Thomas? may we, think
you, comply with Master Calverley's request with-
out blemishing our character as magistrates ? "

"Why not?" said Sir Thomas; "he will be
in sufficient custody, and such being the case, it is
no more than Christian charity to oblige him in
so small a matter."

vol. i. o

290 CA&VERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

"I am right glad to hear you say so," replied
his hrother magistrate ; " for, be things as they
may, I must needs grieve for Master Calverley's
condition, and would do anything honestly in my
power to amend it. To tell you the truth, neigh-
bour," he added in a whisper, " it 's my constant
belief that the poor fellow is not in his right
mind — not wholly mad, perhaps, but mad by fits
and starts."

" If it 's no more than that comes to, it won't
do him much good with judge or jury," said Sir
Thomas in the same tone.

" I am afraid not," said the other.

And here the co iversation ended, when the
prisoner was led off under a strong escort, and
a ken as he had desired, to his house at Calverley.

It might have been supposed that he would
prove no welcome visitant at the house which he
had made a house of mourning ; but dearly as
Philippa loved her children, when he appeared she
forgot the mother in the wife, while as to the
wounds he had inflicted on herself they weighed
as nothing in the balance against her true affection.
With pain and difficulty she raised herself from
the couch where they had laid her, and flung her
arms about his neck, sobbing as though her heart
would break, and unable for several minutes to
say anything beyond "Oh, my husband — my dear
husband ! "

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 291

" Would that I had indeed deserved such an
epithet from your lips," replied "Walter sadly;
" I should not then have stood before you, as I
do now, a self-condemned criminal, repenting
when repentance can no longer avail him. But if
I wronged you in my life, at least I will not in
my death."

The constable, who, contrary to the character
usually assigned to such officials, was a shrewd
fellow, considered this as an intimation that the
prisoner meant to commit suicide, and advancing
from the door, where he had hitherto remained,
drew near, to be ready in case of the worst — ■
"though how," he said to himself, "Master Cal-
verly intends doing such a thing, I can't imagine,
seeing that we haven't left him so much as a pen-
knife."

In the midst of his grief, Walter observed the
action, and was at no loss to guess what had caused
it.

" Do not fear me," he said ; " I have no such
intention."

"It 's best though to be on the safe side,
Master Calverley ; and with your good leave 1 '11
stay where I am. When I 've once lodged you
safe in Master Key's house at Wakefield, you can
do as you please, or rather as he pleases."

Walter was too much beaten down by his new

o 2

292 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY;

grief to dispute the point any farther, and if 1 he
felt a momentary pang at finding himself for the
first time in his life thus completely at the will
of another, the feeling was completely banished,
when he again heard the low moaning voice of
his Philippa.

" They will not take you from me, will they ? "
she murmured.

" Alas ! yes, my love ; we must part in a few
tainutes, and, I fear, for ever on this side the
grave."

" Oh, no — they will not — cannot, be so cruel !
For one day — only for one day — I have so much
to say to you."

"My gentle, loving, Philippa! how could I
ever feel otherwise towards you than I do at this
moment ? It seems like some horrid dream ; but
what realities has it left behind ! "

" Give them gold," whispered Philippa ; " my
purse is in the oak cabinet with the money I had
saved up for William's birth-day to morrow. Oh,
my child ! my child ! "

"Walter could not reply ; the words seemed well
nigh to choke him when he would have uttered
them, and even the constable was fain to wipe his
eyes with his coat sleeve as he again diew back to
allow them greater freedom in conversing.

Nearly an hour had passed in this way, so

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 293

agonizing to all parties, the constable feeling too
much sympathy with their distress to abridge the
interview, when the surgeon, who had been sent
for long before, at last made his appearance.
With more judgment, though perhaps less feeling,
than had been exhibited by the officer of the
law, he insisted upon their immediate separation,
roundly assuring Walter that if he did not wish
to complete the mischief he had begun, he would
leave the room instantly.

" I must needs," he said, " look to the lady's
wounds with as little delay as possible, besides
that your presence keeps her in such a state of
agitation as may well render all our cares unavail-

ing."

This blunt protest was not lost upon the con-
stable, who, moreover, felt that it was high time
to set out for Wakefield. Joining his authority
to the rough, but well-meant remonstrances of
the surgeon, a separation was effected by some-
thing between force and persuasion, in the course
of which Philippa fainted, and thus put an end to
a scene which was growing inexpressibly distress-
ing to all parties.

Day followed day — night followed night — all
alike dark and cheerless to the prisoner, and ren-
dered yet more so by the monotony of suffering.
At length came the day of trial, and Walter, who

294 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

had been previously removed to York for that pur-
pose, was put to thehar in due course of law, when
to the general surprise he refused to plead to his
arraignment. It was in vain that the j udge explained
to him the horrible penalty of the peine forte et
dure, which the law at that period affixed to such
contumacy, and that so far from escaping death
he would only make it more certain, and in a
form more dreadful. To all this he replied, " I am
familiar with everything you can urge, my lord ;
T know full well that I shall die under lingering
tortures, being pressed to death beneath a load of
stone or iron, but such pains are as welcome to
me as ever were the child-bed throes to the heart
of a loving woman ; they are the only atonement
I can offer to man or heaven. May they be ac-
cepted."

" "Why, then, you do acknowledge your crime V
said the judge hastily, eager to catch at anything
by which the more cruel form of punishment
might be avoided. " In that case "

" By no means, my Lord," interrupted Walter,
without allowing him an opportunity of pro-
nouncing judgment ; " when I talked of atone-
ment, I said not for what offence ; it might be for
deeds ten times worse than any I stand accused of,
but which, as the secret of them lies buried in
my own bosom, come not within your cognizance."

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 295

, Upon this declaration Calverley was removed
from the bar, leaving the people much divided in
their opinions upon his conduct. Some considered
that he was committing an act of suicide, quite
forgetting that he stood a fair chance of being
hanged, and thus did no more in refusing to plead
than exercise the only ehoice the law allowed him,
which was not between life and death, but between
a rope and the peine forte et dure. Others took
his words in their literal meaning, and believed
that he intended these voluntary pains as a sort of
catholic penance for his crimes. The wiser few
concluded that it was done to save his attainder
and prevent the corruption of his blood and con-
sequent forfeiture of lands, in case, as there could
be little doubt, he was attainted of felony; in
other words, they suspected that his object in sub-
mitting to so terrible a death, was to save his
estate for his surviving son Henry, for if he allowed
them to press him to death, as no felony would
have been proved against him for want of trial, no
forfeiture could be incurred.*

* Whittaker in his History of Leeds, denies this. He says>
" a copy of the inq. post mortem of this unhappy man has fallen
into my hands, from which it appears that Ao. 44 Eliz., the
manors of Calverley and Pudsey, with the appurtenances in
Calverley, &c, were vested in trust on Sir J. Brorke and others
for and during the joint natural lives of W. Calverley, Esq., and
Philippa his wife, and after their decease to the use and behoof

296 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

He was now led from court and taken to a cell
which had long borne the name of Pompey's
parlour, a phrase, no doubt, originally given to it
by some sailor convict, and borrowed from the
negroes, who are used to give the grave that appella-
tion. It is about eighteen feet square, and affords
sufficient light to read by, and, though entirely
devoted to condemned prisoners, it has the luxury
of a fire place. In each corner of this dungeon
a strong iron ring was then fixed into the wall,
but these have been removed, the horrible punish-
ment in which they once aided being now happily
obliterated from our law books. Still more
ominous of the tragedy to be enacted was the
total absence of bed or seat of any kind. It was
plain that he, who entered here as a prisoner, had
no longer anything to do with the purposes of life ;

of Will. Calverley, son and heir apparent, and his heirs male,
and so forth. The estate therefore being in strict settlement,
could not have been effected by a forfeiture. But the stock upon
an estate at that period, when rents were very low, and the
owners in consequence occupied the greater part of them, when
lands might be bought at ten years' purchase, and cattle were
comparatively dear was nearly equal to the value of the stock
itself, so that Mr. Calverley had an inducement sufficiently strong
to stand mute upon his trial for the benefit of his creditors,
whose demands could not otherwise have been satisfied." — Credat
Judffius Apella ; that a man should suffer himself to be tortured
to death for the benefit of his creditors is an exercise of super-
human virtue. Even the liberal Antonio tried every means in
his power to escape paying old Shylock his pound of flesh.

calverley of calverley. 297

be came but to die, and to die in unutterable
tortures.

Nothing now was heard in the chamber of death
but the murmured exhortations of the divine, who
was preparing the unhappy man for another world
by bringing him to a proper state of penitence in
this. That he speeded well in his sacred office
was evident from the calm and even assured look,
with which, after about half an hour spent in
prayer, the victim submitted himself to his execu-
tioners, and desired them to do their duty. It was
the only atonement he could offer for the crimes,
of whose enormity he had now become fully
sensible, and he seemed to feel a pride in the tre-
mendous nature of the sacrifice. To his diseased
imagination this idea threw a splendour about his
crimes that almost made them virtues, and in a
great measure reconciled him once again to him-
self. At his heart was all the exaltation of a
martyr.

Being stript to the waist, he was laid upon his
back, and a sharp wedge placed under him, while
his legs and arms were distended to the utmost by
cords passed through the rings in the four corners
of the dungeon. The triangular press was then
fixed upon him with the point of it to his breast,
when its loading was gradually commenced. At
first the flushed face of the sufferer, and his

o 3

£98 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

broken ejaculations, alone gave any indications of
what he was enduring ; but when, after a little
while, more weight was added, it was evident that
the torture had become insupportable.

" Strengthen me, oh Lord," groaned the un-
happy creature. " These pangs are dreadful —
they are not to be borne ! Water ! water ! — will
no kind heart give me to drink ? Death ! oh for
death ! — when will it come ? Kill me, kill me.
Oh God ! God ! can man be so cruel to his fellow
man !"

In a few minutes the first throb of intense
anguish had passed away, and though the sense of
pain still continued sufficiently acute, it was far
from being what it had been. The executioner,
who watched every sign with the eagerness of one
that took a horrid delight in his occupation,
again added more weight. Then the shrieks and
groans of the poor sufferer became absolutely
appalling. The terrified clergyman fell upon his
knees in fervent prayer, while the drops of mental
agony bedewed his forehead, and his cheeks grew
pale as ashes ! The gaoler himself turned away
sickening, and pressed his hands to his ears to shut
out sounds so frightful ; and the sheriff cried out
in tones that seemed to be involuntarily pitched
to the screams of the victim, " I can bear this no
longer, it must be put an end to."

CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 299

" If you please, sir," said the executioner, with
something very like a grin of self-satisfaction on
his coarse features, " if you please you can all
leave the cell. I'll stay here to take the press oif
if he should happen to change his mind and say
he'll plead. To morrow, if he should hold out so
long, he may have a spoonful of water and a
morsel of dry bread, just enough to keep life in
him, but nothing more."

" Put more weight upon him," said the sheriff
hastily.

" That would spoil all," replied the fellow, mis-
taking the kindly motive of his master, and
evidently fancying that he also began to take a
pleasure in the business ; " that would spoil all ;
the poor devil has got as much as he can bear
already, and if we lay on more he'll be sure to
give us the slip. Men die so easily ; they han't
half the life in them that a cat has."

" Do as you are ordered, sirrah," thundered the
sheriffi " or give up your office."

" As you please," growled the man ; " but I
thought it my duty to — "

" This instant, scoundrel "

With much reluctance the executioner began to
obey this order, but without putting himself in
any particular hurry.

"More! " exclaimed the sheriff; " more! —
more yet ! "

300 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY.

And, impatient of the fellow's slowness, he hini-
self laid a heavy stone upon the sufferer, when a
crashing of hones was heard, followed hy a hollow
stifled groan, — stifled by the gush of blood from
the mouth and nostrils, — and all was over.

Remember, gentle reader, this is no idle fiction.*
So did Walter Calverley sin, so did he atone for
it. If his crimes were great, such also was his
punishment, and there are few, we think, who will
refuse complying with the solemn injunction, now
half effaced, upon his tombstone,

dDrate prn h " ia t#alt. Calmly.

Pray for the soul of Wa\ter Calverley.
* The pressing to death took place August 5th, 1604.

SOI

GRACE O'MALLEY.

Many a wild tradition yet lingers in Ballycroy
and in the beautiful island of Clare, concerning
that Cleopatra of the West, well known as Grania
Waile, or Grace O'Malley. She was possessed of
a large extent of country, principally in thecounty
of Mayo, and her jurisdiction seems to have
widely extended into the adjoining counties and
over most of the not unfertile but almost inacces-
sible islands which border the Atlantic from
Donegal to Galway. Here English rule and
English laws were almost unknown, an occasional
inroad, at long intervals, being all that was at-
tempted by the Norman invaders for many cen-
turies. Grania Waile therefore appears to have
reigned undisturbed ; she was acknowledged and
patronised by Queen Elizabeth, a kindred spirit.
She built castles ; fitted out fleets ; raised and
maintained troops ; and left domains to her de-
scendants, now represented by Sir Samuel O'Mal-
ley, Bart.

302 GRACE O'MALLEY.

An act of this extraordinary woman, as detailed
by an ecclesiastic, well known for his ample stock
of traditionary lore, deserves to be recorded.

The wood of Glann covers a bold promontory,
which stretches far into the magnificent Lough
Corrib on its western shore. Here, close to the
spot where the waters of the lake so far intrude
as almost to make an island of the promontory,
formerly stood an ancient house of the better
class. It was at the bottom of a gentle hollow whose
sides were green and verdant, affording sweet pas-
turage and productive arable, while the thick wood
around and above it, gave shelter from the storm
and abundance of useful wood which was cut and
manufactured, and then sold in the neighbouring
city of Galway, which lies at the southern ex-
tremity of the lake. In this house, known by the
name of " Annagh," lived a widow woman and her
three sons, of whom the two eldest, Roderic and
Donald, were tall and handsome, and the younger,
Dermod, crippled in one foot, weakly in frame
and small of stature. These all laboured in their
vocations to support their mother and maintain
the respectability of the house, for they laid
claim to a respectable lineage though their estate
was now but small and their retainers few.

Who round the shores of Corrib could excel
Roderic at the sail — the oar — the rod or the net ;

GRACE O'MALLEY. 303

and who could exceed in swiftness of foot — in
skill and boldness in the chase, the fair-haired
Donald of the wood ? Dermod had his part
too — assisted by old Thady he took the charge
of the flock and protected the crops from ravage,
and he also occasionally accompanied his brothers
to Galway Town in their stout half-deck boat.
They were a happy united family, affectionate
to one another, dutiful and attentive to their
mother, who loved them all tenderly and valued
them above all the treasures of the earth. Mixing
occasionally in the sports but never in the excesses
of their neighbours, they had the reputation of
heing above the world, for they always paid ho-
nestly for what they had, and never stooped to
any mean or sordid action. The widow Fitz-
Gerald therefore was counted a happy woman,
and so indeed she was. But happiness is not
a fee-simple in its possession and is exposed to
many flaws. A sky ever unclouded is unknown
in this our world.

One fine evening early in the autumn, Donald
and Dermod were reclining on one of the little
rocky headlands that jut into the lake. Scarcely
a ripple was upon the water, and the many
islands distant and near were more than usually
distinct from the extreme clearness of the atmos-
phere. The quick eye of Dermod was fixed upon

304 GRACE O'MALLEY.

a dark spot afar off which he soon discovered to be
a boat making for the shore, but studiously keep-
ing to the northward of the Isle of Illaundarrack.

" That boat," said he to Donald, " belongs to
the dark knight of Inchagoil ; one man rows it and
in the stern cowers a female ; I fancy," added he
significantly, " I can see her cloak of dark blue."

Donald shook his head incredulously, and the
dark cloud of sorrow passed over his face.

As the boat however neared he gazed more and
more eagerly, and now springing upon his feet was
quickly lost amid the tangled thickets of the wood
of Glann. Arrived at the other side of the penin-
sula he unmoored a small boat and skirting close
by the shore as if to escape observation, he rowed
rapidly into one of the little bays of Currarevagh,
and there springing upon the land, climbed a tall
cliff, from whence unseen he could command a
view of the lake and the country inland. Ere long
the boat designated by Dermot as coming from
Inchagoil was seen to approach, and stealing quietly
under shelter of a range of rocks, a female figure
landed after cautiously looking around, and walked
rapidly up a narrow vale that seemed to wind into
the recesses of the neighbouring mountain.

" It is then as I thought," exclaimed Donald.
"Eva is paying her annual visit to the mainland
that she may perform her devotions at the holy

GRACE O'MALLEY. 305

well of St. Cuthbert." The young man descended
from his post and rapidly rising the hill beyond
soon looked into the little vale, and there close to
the sacred well he saw the figure kneeling just
where an ancient and decayed ash tree threw its
sheltering boughs athwart the bubbling spring.
The devotions over, the young man stood at Eva's
side, for it was indeed the maiden whom he loved.
The meeting on his part was warm and glowing as
ardent affection could make it — on her's there was
manifest pleasure indeed, but also embarrassment
and fear.

"Go, Donald," said she in a tone of decision,
" remember one year more and the heiress of
Inchagoil is her own mistress. Do not think that
Eva O'Connor can ever forget the promise she
made to Donald Fitz-Gerald when they met in the
halls of Doonaa Castle, under the protection of
Grania Waile."

" I know your truth, Eva," said Donald, " I
know that the pledges of former days will with you
be ever sacred, but is it true that the knight
Mac Moragh, your mother's kinsman, and alas !
your guardian, is resolved you should wed his
sister's son, the red-haired Gael of Ardnamurehan ?"

" It is too true, Donald," replied Eva sighing,
" but he cannot compel me to contract with that
beggarly Scot. He is expected ere long, but 1
shall be firm, and if any foul play is intended, I

206 GRACE OMALLEY.

will escape to my good godmother and friend the
mighty Grace O'Malley.

" But how escape ? what means have you un-
aided to effect this ? Escape now, Eva, while I am
near you, with means ready to conduct and an
arm ready to protect you."

" Alas ! Donald, I cannot," replied she, casting
down her eyes. " It^were not maidenly to commit
myself thus to your charge, and besides," said she,
starting, "there is danger in our being here.
Know you who is in the boat — it is the knight's
foster brother O'Ruarke. He it was I suspect
who betrayed our meeting here last year, and even
now I fear some trap may be laid to detect us.
Go therefore, dear Donald, while the path is clear,
and trust in my firmness for the future. I have
promised."

Donald turned pale when he heard the name of
O'Ruarke, for he was his deadly foe. He saw at
once the danger to himself and Eva, and for her
sake determined to retreat while opportunity
afforded. He turned, but a warning shriek from
Eva and a powerful grasp from behind too late
convinced him that the trap was laid, and he had
unwittingly fallen into it. Resistance was vain —
in a moment he was bound hand and foot, and in
an hour's space lodged in the deep dungeon of the
old tower of Templenaneeve.

GRACE o'mALLEY. 307

" He comes not forth thence," said the gloomy
Knight of Inchagoil, " till Eva O'Connor and her
broad lands are the property of Ivan Macrae."

Dermod, quick in intellect, and ever ready in
device, suspecting his brother's intent, had mounted
a hill pony and riding by a circuitous path over
the intervening mountain had witnessed the whole
scene. E-oderic was gone up the lake to the town
of Cong. Dermod, therefore, though reluctantly,
mentioned the facts to his mother, who was horror-
struck at the news.

" If O'Ruarke were the man," exclaimed she in
an agony, "Donald is surely lost. He will not
forget how my poor son chastised him at the fair
011 the hill of Glann."

" Eva O'Connor too was at the holy well of St.
Cuthbert's," said Dermod musingly, "there is
danger to Donald from more than O'Ruarke."

" 1 see it all," cried the distracted mother, " oh
that Donald had never sojourned that year at
Doonaa. He then might never have seen Eva or
crossed the black knight."

" True," replied Dermod quietly, " but remem-
ber dear mother, that Grania Waile is Donald's
friend and Eva's god-mother. She will not suffer
a hair of their heads to be touched."

" How can she help it, my son ?" said the widow
bitterly. " How can she know of all this and she

308 GRACE O'MALLEY.

at her castle in the Island of Clare ? And if she
knew, what power has she on these shores, and iu
the islands of Corrib ? The knight would laugh
her to scorn."

" That is all we ought to wish," said Dermod,
"for if the knight defies her power his doom is
sealed. We cannot do hetter now that Roderic is
away, than to go over to the island and claim liberty
for Donald. Come mother — let us not waste time,
for it is precious, and may God speed us well."

The widow was wont to look up to Dermod's
council, and she was often heard to say that what
he wanted in body was amply made up in mind.

The boat with two rowers was soon ready, and
in an hour they were in the small, smooth bay,
which is sheltered to the north by the two islets
called Burre and Inishannagh. On the western
and eastern extremities of Inchagoil the land rises
abruptly, terminating in rocky slopes or broken
cliffs, and in the centre, overlooking two small bays
on opposite sides of the island, stands the old
tower of Templenaneeve, " whose birth tradition
notes not." As the mother and her crippled son
approached the portal they were spied by the
knight, who expecting his Scotch kinsman that
very day, was pacing the battlements above the
great hall, casting his eyes ever and anon over the
wide extent of waters around him.

GRACE o'MALLEY. 309

" Sir Knight, I pray my son's deliverance," said
the widow not humbly but proudly, throwing aside
her veil and displaying a countenance yet comely
though pale with sorrow and trepidation.

" Your errand is a fruitless one," said the knight,
' ' I know not your son."

" In the name of Grania Waile, release my
brother," cried Dermod. " She will not see him
injured, and her power is great."

" Grace O'Malley," replied the knight, " has
no power here. If she would have the young
man, let her dare to fetch him. Begone ! "

The widow Fitz-Gerald and her son made no
further parley, but hastily regaining their boat,
pushed off towards the house of Annagh. It was
the feast of St. Michael, and the festive board
was spread in the Castle of Doonaa. Grace
O'Malley (or as she was oftener called by her own
countrymen Grania Waile) was seated on a canopied
chair of state in the centre of the table that crossed
the hall, on a raised dais. Her attendant maidens
occupied the seats on her left, while her more
powerful retainers and men of war graced her
right, clad in glittering steel, and equally ready
for the combat as the feast. She was in form tall
and stately, without being graceful — her eye was
restless, quick, and piercing — her face comely,
but the expression somewhat fierce and decided.

310 GRACE O'MALLEY.

There was a bold licence in all she said and did,
which would ill become an ordinary personage,
but she was of another class. Proud, irritable,
and domineering, she could also be kind, gene-
rous, and even affectionate — her enemies hated
and feared her — her friends seldom forsook her.
When it suited her purpose she knew the way to
win hearts, and what is more difficult still, to
keep them. Her morals, perhaps, were not unex-
ceptionable, if, which is not often the case,
report spoke truly ; but all stood in awe of one
who did not scruple at the means if the end could
be gained. In fact, she was well suited, both to
the country and to the age in which she lived, and
her name has been handed down with honour and
respect. The feast was scarcely yet begun when
the aged seneschal announced the arrival of a
stranger who earnestly entreated an audience.

''He is a beardless youth, crippled, and of
small stature," said the seneschal. " I told him
your highness would see him on the morrow ; but
he will not be denied, and says, his errand is of
great import."

" Admit him,'' was the speedy answer, and soon
Dermod Fitz-Gerald stood on the pavement of
the lofty hall.

" Your business, youth ?" was the stern demand
of the Queen of the West.

GRACE O'MALLEY. 311

" The sound of woe resounds through our
dwelling," replied Dermod ; " and the widow
Fitzgerald, of the house of Annagh, would fain
you heard the cry."

" What boots it — can my hearing the cry pre-
vent the cause ? "

" No, mighty princess, it cannot remedy the
past, but it may speed well the future."

" Well said, young man. Tell me, wherefore,
then, the widow's tears ? "

" She had three sons, and two are not. The
second, Donald, is either dead or languishing in a
dungeon, and the eldest, Roderic, was murdered
in attempting a release. I alone am left, power-
less and a cripple. The widow lays her grief and
her wrongs at your feet."

" Donald is a brave youth, and Roderic deserved
a better fate. But why should I interfere ? He
ran his head doubtless into the broil, and his
family reap the fruits. 'Tis no business of
mine."

" Mighty lady, listen for one moment. Eva
O'Connor, too, is in danger. Under this very
roof she plighted her faith to Donald, but she,
too, is under restraint ; and it will go hard with
her if she consent not to wed the red haired Gael,
Ivan Macrae."

" Eva is my god-daughter. She will discover

312 GRACE o'MALLEY.

a method, either to foil or avenge such a proceed-
ing. Who is the man that dares to stand in her
path ? "

" Her guardian, the black knight of Inchagoil.
He swears my brother shall never see the light of
day till Eva and her broad lands are the property
of his kinsman, Ivan Macrae."

"Well, are they not well matched — two to
two ? Eva and Donald have not been taught at
Doonaa to suifer wrong or insult from any knight
or baron, be he black or white. Comfort, boy — they
will match him yet. Go, tell them what I say."

"But, Princess, the knight has the upper
hand by treachery and foul play. Little can a
man do whose thews and sinews are bound with
links of iron in the deep recesses of a dark dun-
geon, and little will a woman's art or strength
avail against grated windows and bars of steel.
The knight of Inchagoil fears no one, not even
Grrania Waile."

" Sayest thou so, boy ? — the proof ? "

" His own words in the presence of his people.
I heard them. They were addressed to my
wretched mother and myself. The words were
these : ' Grace O'Malley has no power here. If
she would have the young man, let her dare to
fetch him.' "

" Seneschal, dismiss the youth ; but treat him

GRACE O'MALLEY. 313

well, and let him return to-morrow. We will have
no further interruption to our night's festivity."

The now captive Eva, like an imprisoned bird
restless and unhappy, gazed wistfully from her
high casement in the old Tower of Inchagoil,
hoping, but, alas ! against hope, that some change
might release her from her present thraldom. The
night was serene and still. The moon, unclouded,
shed her silver beams o'er land and water, and
the murmur of each gentle wave, as it broke on
the sandy bay below, would have made soothing
music to a less unhappy ear. As Eva gazed, she
could not but feel that the scene before her was
one of surpassing loveliness.

To the westward the broad lake expanded for
several miles, studded with islands till its waves
washed the shores of the Connemara mountains,
or broke upon the rocky coast of the towering
Benleva. Around her were the fertile and undu-
lating lands of Inchagoil, with its seven dependent
islands once to be her own, but a possession value-
less in her eyes, if not shared with Donald Fitz-
gerald. Far to the left were seen the bold
promontory of Annah and the wood of Glann
and there in that dark hollow, was the sacred, but
to her fatal, well of St. Cuthbert, all scenes once
full of sweet, but now fearful associations. From
the great hall below, ever and anon broke forth
vol i. p

314 GRACE O'MALLEY.

the sounds of revelry and military licence, only
stilled when the strings of old Cahan's harp made
merry minstrelsie. And now Eva's thoughts dwelt
on Donald, and her cheek flushed with indignant
grief as she thought of his misery — his dungeon
and his chains. The tears coursed each other down
her fair cheeks, and her spirit burned when she
felt her own helpless condition, and how little
power she had to assist him, even in her own
domain. Then as the rude voice of the hated
Scot was heard above all others in the revel, her
very soul revolted, and in the agony of her spirit
she clasped the bars of her prison, as though her
feeble strength could shake their massive hold.
But hark — a signal ! a figure rises from behind
that broad buttress and beckons. Eva leaned forth
as far as the bars permitted, and soon recognised
Dermod, the cripple. " Despair not, lovely Eva,"
said he in a suppressed voice, " succour is at hand,
but you must escape, or evil may first befall.
Twist the bar of that casement, and it will give
way. There — that is well. Now, fasten this rope
which I throw up to the other bar, and I will be
with you in an instant." The descent was not
great, and with Dermod's assistance, Eva soon
touched the ground, and they hurried to the shore,
taking a path that led to the western extremity of
the island. " A friend waits for you there, Eva,"

GRACE O'MALLEY. 315

said Dermod, " and we shall soon be safe in the
Wood of Glann."

The revel was at the highest, and Cahan's harp
was at its most joyous stretch when O'Ruarke,
the foster brother, rushed into the hall, and bid
the music pause. " A stranger is here, and claims
hospitality."

" Who, or what is he, and by whom accom-
panied," said the knight, somewhat sternly.

" She gives her name Grania Waile, but better
known, she says, to the Knight of Inchagoil, as
Grace O'Malley." A black shade passed over the
knight's brow, succeeded by a deadly paleness.

" O'Ruarke," said he, after a moment's pause,
during which it was manifest that his mind
laboured with some desperate resolve, " give the
illustrious lady welcome," but calling O'Ruarke
to his side, he added in a low tone — " detain
her for a few moments if you can." Evan
Macrae had sprung from his seat, and now
whispered busily with his kinsman, after which
he disappeared. A deep silence pervaded the
hall, and a significant glance passed from one
retainer to another when that powerful name was
thus announced. " Welcome to our hall, Queen
of the Isles," said the knight, advancing to meet
the haughty potentate as she entered, attended
only by one man-at-arms, with his vizor closed.

p 2

316 GRACE O'MALLEY.

" For what are we indebted to the honour of this
condescending but unexpected visit ? What can a
knight do to requite this honour ?"

" Nay, Mac Morogh, Black Knight of Incha-
goil, there we are at issue. My visit is by
invitation, therefore not unexpected."

" How lady ?" questioned the knight, his brow
darkening.

"Do you ask how?" replied she. — " Here I am
alone, save this one attendant, and should I come
thus but by a knight's invitation ?"

" But one attendant ! " echoed the knight, his
heart beating high at the welcome intelligence.

"But one," replied she, " and I repeat by your
invitation, I come. It runs in these words,
' Grace O'Malley has no power here. If she
would have the young man, let her dare to fetch
him.' This invitation I have accepted, aDd fol-
lowing out the terms of it, I demand the young
man, Donald Fitzgerald. Free him, and I will
accept your hospitality, and depart in peace."

" And by what right, Grace O'Malley, do you inter-
fere with my concerns ? Begone, I would not willing-
ly stain my knighthood by offering injury to a lady."

"That you have done already, base knight.
Where is Eva O'Connor?"

" Far from your custody, and in hands that will
know how to retain both her and hers."

GRACE O'MALLEY. 317

" Ah ! " exclaimed the knight, as Evan Macrae
rushed into the hall, " how now ? — I thought, ere
this, you were far away with the prize."

" The bird has flown, and is no where to be
found," replied the Scot.

" But," exclaimed the knight, " Donald Fitz-
gerald ? you have not failed there ? "

" He is here," said the man-at-arms, throwing up
his vizor, and displaying the handsome features
of Donald Fitzgerald, " ready and willing to do
hattle, and to avenge his wrongs. Come on false
knight — a fair field is all I require against the
dastardly murderer of my brother."

"Seize him, O'Ruarke — down with him, Evan,"
cried the now furious knight, rising from his
seat and drawing his sword, but O'E-uarke's obe-
dience cost him his life. There was a moment's
pause — the Scot retreated to his kinsman's side,
and Grace O'Malley calmly looked on as if stand-
ing in her own halls.

" Will no one down with that caitiff ? Will no
one seize that woman ? " again roared the knight.
Not a hand moved, not a voice was heard.
Each retainer stood motionless and stiff as marble.
" Then to it ourselves, Evan Macrae," said the
knight, " and thus let us first avenge O'Ruarke."

Evan would have obeyed, but the iron grasp of
two retainers withheld him, and the knight found

318 GRACE O'MALLEY.

himself confronting Donald Fitzgerald single-
handed. The contest was fierce — not long ; the
knight, sorely wounded, dropped his sword, and
leaned against the wall for support.

"Enough," saidJGrace O'Malley; "Donald
put up your sword, and do you, base knight,
hear me. I well knew your cowardly designs
upon Eva, and have long taken measures to defeat
them. Think you, false Southron, to enter the
lists with me ? And think you the brave men of
Inchagoil and Connemara, her own people, were to
be the instruments of your tyranny ? That, Sir
Knight, was all settled between us ere I set foot
within these walls. Through their co-operation,
Donald was released, or that Craven Scot would
have murdered him when bound in chains. By
their assistance Eva O'Connor is now in the House
of Annagh, under the protection of her future
mother-in-law ; and, had you dared to lay your
dastardly hands on me, by their swords your own
life would have paid the penalty. Take that
meddling Scot," continued she, pointing to the
now fear-struck Evan Macrae, " throw him into
the lake — he may swim or drown, but if he ever
sets foot in Inchagoil again, be it your fault,
Donald, if he returns alive. And as for you, Sir
Knight of the Black Scarf and Sable Plume, you
well deserve the fate you have inflicted upon a

GRACE o'MALLEY. 319

better man ; but I bid you begone — a boat awaits
you — if you survive this day and venture hither
again, Donald Fitzgerald, the lord of this
domain will not forget who was his brother's
murderer."

So ends the tradition. Ages have elapsed,
and the Island of Inchagoil, one of the fairest in
lovely Erin, is now the home of a Saxon. What
still remains of the ancient Tower of Templena-
neeve, is carefully preserved, and report says, that
ere long it will be renewed in a portion of its
former strength and beauty. Close by, are the
ruins of the time-honoured pile of St. Patrick.
Within] those sacred walls are deposited the
remains of Donald Fitzgerald and his wife Eva,
and a scarcely legible inscription informs us, that
their two sons died, seized of Connemara and
Ballycroy, and their daughter, Grace, married
Maurice O'Donel, of Doonaa.

320

RODERIC O'CONNOR, THE LAST KING OF
IRELAND.

The western parts of Ireland, more particulary
the Province of Connaught, long maintained an
independent attitude with regard to the Norman
invaders. It included a very mountainous district,
full of noble lakes and rivers, and also of innumer-
able islands off the coast, some thickly inhabited
by a brave and hardy race. In this district are
the two magnificent lakes Lough Corrib and Lough
Mask, the former twenty-five miles in length, with
an area or superficies of nearly 50,000 acres ; the
latter about ten miles long and four broad. The
islands on Lough Corrib comprehend nearly 2,000
acres, some of them, as Inchagoil and Inishdoorus,
very fertile and beautiful, while others are par-
tially covered with wood, or afford valuable
pasturage for cattle. The ancient but almost
inaccessible pass into Joyce's Country and Con-
nemara was through the old town of Cong and over

THE LAST KING OF IRELAND, 321

the Maam Mountain — another was by Galway,
and more to the north than either was the romantic
pass through the Vale of Errive.

But Cong, situated on the narrow neck of land
which divides Lough Mask from Lough Corrib was
a place of considerable importance in the earliest
ages of Irish tradition . A situation more beautiful
and truly romantic cannot be conceived. Here for
many generations was the residence of the Kings
of Connaught — here was founded in times too
remote to ascertain the date, but believed to be in
the seventh century, one of the most splendid
abbeys in the island, well denominated, " Sanc-
torum Insula;" and it was within its quiet clois-
ters and holy recesses that Roderic O'Connor, the
last of the Kings of Ireland retired from tumults
and from war, and, full of years and honour, died
in peace about the year of our Lord 1198. A
brief notice of this Prince may not be uninterest-
ing, as his history is connected with the first great
invasion of Ireland by Richard (son of Gibbert de
Clare) surnamed Strongbow, Earl of Strigul and
Chepstow. For three centuries or more from
868 a.d., the Irish annals present little but
a continued detail of intestine war between the
natives and Danes, or as they are better known
the Ostmen or Eastmen, In the year 1 162, Der-
mod Mac-Morogh was King of Leinster, and on

p 3

322 RODERIC O'CONNOR,

several occasions was victorious over these invaders.
Giraldus de Barri, a contemporary writer, thus
describes him : — " He was tall and'great bodie.
A valiant and bold warrior in his nation, and by
reason of his continual halowing and crieng hoarse
in voice. (JEncrebro continuoque belli clamore voce
raucisond.) He chose to be feared rather than
loved, was a great oppressor of his nobilitie, but a
great allowancer of the poor and weak " Manus
omnium contra ipsum et ipse contrarius omni." —
(Hooker's Translation.)

It was the insolence and oppressions of this man
which roused the resentment of Roderic O 'Connor,
King of Connaught. He invaded the province of
Leinster, and the subjects of Dermod Mac-Morogh
taking this opportunity to free themselves from
his tyrannies, deserted him when he would have
led them to battle. Dermod fled and took
refuge in England, where throwing himself at the
feet of King Henry the Second, he sought his
protection, and offered to swear allegiance to him.
Henry, who had already meditated the invasion of
Ireland, and even procured a Bull from Pope
Adrian to authorize the conquest, gladly seized
this pretext, and after many delays Richard
Strongbow, Earl of Strigul and Chepstow, was
authorized to assist in the restoration of the King
of Leinster. While the expedition was preparing

THE LAST KING OF IRELAND. 323

Dermod, anxious again to behold his native land,
even though at a distance, took up his residence at
theEpiscopal city of St. David's, where, as Giraldus
says — " languishing for a passage he comforted
himself as well as he might ; sometime drawing and
as it were breathing the air of his country, which
he seemed to breathe and smell ; sometimes view-
ing and beholding his country which on a fair day
a man may ken and descry."

Rhys ap Gruffydd, King of South Wales, and
David Fitz-Gerald, who was Bishop of St. David's,
commiserated the condition of the Irish Prince,
and used all their influence to interest others in
his cause. Partly at their instigation the following
agreement was made with Mac-Morogh — " That
Robert Fitz-Stephen, Constable of Aberteivi, or
Cardigan, and Maurice Fitz-Gerald should aid
and assist him in the recovery of his possessions,
and in consideration thereof should receive a grant
of the town of Wexford and two cantreds of land
adjoining in fee to them and their heirs for ever.

In the year 1170, this invasion of Ireland took
place — Dermod Mac-Morogh was restored — a
treaty was concluded with Roderic O'Connor
acknowledging him (Roderic) to be chief monarch
of Ireland ; and Wexford and the two cantreds of
land were delivered up to Fitz-Stephen. The two
Kings, however, secretly agreed that " as soon as

324 RODERIC O'CONNOR,

his own people were reduced to good order Mac-
Morogh should send home the English and never
invite any more to come over."

Treacherously and covertly invited, however, by
the false King of Leinster, who still in his heart
thirsted for vengeance upon Roderic, Strongbow
at length landed in Ireland on the vigil of the
Feast of St. Bartholomew. He soon got posses-
sion of Waterford and Dublin notwithstanding a
determined opposition, and from this moment may
be dated the downfall of Irish independence.
Mac-Morogh not satisfied with reducing his own
subjects by means of his English auxiliaries, also
turned the same force against those he conceived
to be opposed to his proceedings. Reginald,
Prince of the Danes at Waterford, and Malachy
O'Feolain, Prince of the Decies, and O'Ruarke,
Prince of Meath, all fell under the vengeance of
this foul traitor to his country. It happened that
Roderic O'Connor had the son of Mac-Morogh
in his hold as a hostage for the fulfilment of their
treaty, and thinking " That as his neighbour's
house was set on fire, his own might shortly suffer
the some fate," he sent messengers to Mac-Morogh,
saying — "Contrary to the order of peace thou
hast called together a great multitude of strangers,
and as long as thou didst keep thyself in thine own
country of Leinster we bare therewith. But as

THE LAST KING OF IRELAND. 325

now not caring for thine oath thouhast so insolently
passed thy bounds, I am to require thee to retire
and withdraw these excurses of strangers or else
without fail 1 will cut off thy son's head and send
it thee."

Mac-Morogh answered, " that he would not de-
sist from his enterprise until he had subdued all
Connaught, and recovered for himself the mo-
narchy of Ireland." Whereupon, Roderic ordered
his son's head to be cut off, and sent to him.
Soon after, Dermod Mac-Morogh died at Femes.
Roderic immediately joined Lawrence O'Toole,
Archbishop of Dublin, in forming a powerful
coalition of Irish princes against the invaders, and
they closely besieged Earl Strongbow and his
associates in the city of Dublin. Actuated by
despair, however, a determined band of 600 sallied
forth early in the morning from the city, direct-
ing their attack against the quarters of King
Roderic. Taken by surprise, the Irish gave way,
and the King narrowly escaped being captured.
King Henry, hearing of these successes, resolved
himself to visit Ireland, and leaving Milford Ha-
ven in the year 1172, landed at Waterford with
an army consisting of 500 knights and 4000 sol-
diers. On his arrival, Dermod Mac Carthy, King
of Cork, voluntarily submitted himself, took the
oath of allegiance, and agreed to pay tribute

326 RODERIC O'CONNOR,

annually. On his arrival at Cashel, Donald, King
of Limerick, did the same, as also Donald Prince
of Ossory, and Malachy O'Feolane, Prince of the
Decies, and many other powerful men. But the
haughty Roderic O'Connor kept aloof, burning
with indignation at the cowardice and meanness
of these his countrymen, and refused peremp-
torily to set foot beyond the Shannon, even to
greet the English monarch. To avert, how-
ever, the horrors of war, and to spare his people
a contest, which, single-handed, he felt was hope-
less, he consented to take the oath of allegiance,
which was administered by Hugh de Lacy and
William Fitz-Adeline. O'Ruarke, Prince of
Meath, however, and Donald, Prince of Limerick,
still kept the field against the invaders, and Ro-
deric O'Connor, joining his forces to theirs, crossed
the Shannon, invaded the province of Meath, and
devastated the country up to the very walls of
Dublin. They then invaded Leinster, but hear-
ing that the valiant Norman chief, Reymund,
who had just married Basilia, the sister of Earl
Strongbow, was marching against them with a
large force, Roderic retired into Connaught.
Tradition mentions, that, meeting with great in-
gratitude from his son, and foreseeing and la-
menting the downfall of his country, this bold and
consistent prince, who well supported, might have

SIR WILLIAM WYNDHAM. 327

secured the independence of Ireland for a time
at least, retired to the Abbey of Cong, where,
endeavouring to forget the concerns of this life,
he busied himself in preparing for another. His
memory has been honoured by posterity, and
Cong abbey, the place of his retreat, though
in ruins, still remains, giving external evidence
that it was one of the most splendid piles that
adorned " the Island of Saints."

SIR WILLIAM WYNDHAM AND THE WHITE HORSE.

At the end of the last century, Sir William
Wyndham being on his travels through Venice,
observed accidentally, as he was passing through
St. Mark's Place in his cabriolet, a more than
ordinary crowd at one corner of it. On stopping,
he found it was a mountebank who had occasioned
it, and who was pretending to tell fortunes, con-
veying his predictions to the people by means of
a long narrow tube of tin, which he lengthened or
curtailed at pleasure, as occasion required. Sir
William, among others, held up a piece of money,

328 SIB WILLIAM WYNDHAM

on which the charlatan immediately directed his
tube to the cabriolet, and said to him, very dis-
tinctly, in Italian, " Signor Inglese, cavete il
bianco cavallo."

This circumstance made a very forcible impres-
sion upon him, from the recollection that some
years before, when very young, having been out
at a stag-hunt, in returning home from the sport
he found several of the servants at his father's
gate standing round a fortune teller, who either
was, or pretended to be, both deaf and dumb, and
for a small remuneration wrote on the bottom of
a trencher, with a piece of chalk, answers to such
questions as the servants put to him by the same
method. As Sir William rode by, the man made
signs to him that he was willing to tell him his
fortune as well as the rest, and in good humour
he would have complied ; but as he could not
recollect any particular question to ask, the man
took the trencher, and, writing upon it, gave it
back, with these words written legibly, " Beware
of a white horse." Sir William smiled at the
absurdity, and totally forgot the circumstance, till
the coincidence at Venice reminded him of it.
He immediately and naturally imagined that the
English fortune-teller had made his way over to
the continent, where he had found his speech;
and he was now curious to know the truth of the

AND THE WHITE HORSE. 329

circumstance. Upon inquiry, however, he felt
assured that the fellow had never been out of
Italy, nor understood any other language than his
own.

Sir William Wyndham had a great share in the
transactions of government during the last four
years of Queen Anne's reign, in which a design
to restore the son of James II. to the British
throne, which his father had forfeited, was un-
doubtedly concerted ; and on the arrival of George
I. many persons were punished, by being put into
prison or sent into banishment. Among the
former of those who had entered into this com-
bination was Sir William Wyndham, who, in
1715, was committed as a prisoner to the
Tower. Over the inner gate were the arms of
Great Britain, in which there was then some al-
teration to be made, in consequence of the suc-
cession of the house of Brunswick ; and as Sir
William's chariot was passing through, conveying
him to his prison, the painter was at work adding
the white horse, which formed the arms of the
Elector of Hanover. It struck Sir William
forcibly. He immediately recollected the two
singular predictions, and mentioned them to the
lieutenant of the Tower, then in the chariot with
him, and to almost every one who came to see
him there during his confinement ; and, although

330 SIR WILLIAM WYNDHAM.

probably not inclined to superstition, he looked
upon it as a prophecy which was fully accom-
plished. But in this he was much mistaken ; for
many years after, being out hunting, he had the
misfortune to be thrown whilst leaping a ditch,
by which accident he broke his neck. He rode
upon a white horse.

This was the famous statesman and orator, of
whom Pope has left an elegant eulogium : —

" How can I Pult'ney, Chesterfield forget,
While Roman spirit charms and Attic wit!
Or Wyndham, just to freedom and the throne,
The master of our passions and his own,"

Sir William's death occurred on the 27th of
June, 1740. His son, Charles, succeeded, at the
demise of his maternal uncle, Algernon, Duke of
Somerset, to the earldom of Egremont.

331

OLD ENGLISH HOSPITALITY.

The following account exhibits the grandeur
of housekeeping among the English nobles in
the time of the Plantagenets, being the debit
side of the account of H. Leicester, cofferer to
Thomas Earl of Lancaster, containing the amount
of all the disbursements relating to domestic ex-
penses in the year 1313 (Record of Pontefract),
regno Edwardi II. : —

£ s. d.
To the amount of the charge of

pantry, buttery, and kitchen . 3405
To 369 pipes of red wine, and two

pipes of white •
To all sorts of grocery wares .
To 6 barrels of sturgeon
To 6000 dried fishes of all sorts
To 16141b. of wax, Vermillion, and

turpentine .... 314 7 4

To the charge of the Earl's great

horses, and servant's wages . 436 4 3

104 17

6

180 17

19

41 6

7

332 OLD ENGLISH HOSPITALITY.

£ s. d.
To linen for the Earl, his chaplains,

and table . . . . 43 17

To 129 dozen of skins of parch-
ment, and ink . . . . 4 8 3
To two scarlet cloths for the Earl's
use ; one of russet to the Bishop
of Angew ; seventy of blue for
the knights ; twenty-eight for
the 'squires ; fifteen for the clerks ;
fifteen for the officers; nineteen
for the grooms; five for the
archers; four for the minstrels
and carpenters, with the sharing
and carriage, for the Earl's li-
veries at Christmas . . . 460 15
To 7 furs of powdered ermine ;
7 hoods of purple; 395 furs of
budge, for the liveries of barons,
knights, and clerks, and 123 furs
of lamb, bought at Christmas for
the 'squires . . . 147 17 8
To 168 yards of russet cloth, and
24 coats for poor men, with
money given to the poor on
Maundy Thursday . . . 8 16 7
To 65 saffron-coloured cloths for

OLD ENGLISH HOSPITALITY.

333

the barons and knights in summer,

12 red cloths for the 'squires, 1

for the officers, and 4 ray cloths

for carpets in the hall
To 100 pieces of green silk for the

knights, 14 budge furs for sur-

coats, 13 hoods of budge for the

clerks, and 75 furs of lambs for

liveries in summer, with canvass

and cords to tie them
To saddles for the summer liveries
To one saddle for the Earl .
To several items, the particulars in

the account defaced .
To horses lost* in service
To fees paid to earls, barons, knights

and 'squires
To gifts to French knights, Countess

of Warren, Queen's nurses
• 'squires, minstrels, messengers

and riders ....
To 24 silver dishes, 24 saucers, 24

cups, 1 pair of pater nosters, and
1 silver coffin, all bought this

year, when silver was at Is. 8d.

per ounce .
To several messengers .

£ s. d.

345 13 8

72 19

51 6 8

2

241 14 1

8 6 8

623 15 5

92 14

103 5 6
34 19 8

334 OLD ENGLISH HOSPITALITY.

£ S. d.

To sundry things in the Earl's bed-
chamber 5

To several old debts paid this year 88 16 0|

To the Countess's disbursements at
Pickering 440 5

To 23191b. of tallow candles, and
17801b. of lights, called Paris
candles, or white wax candles . 31 14 3

Sum total £7309 12 6£

We may add, for the due appreciation of the
foregoing, that silver was then at one shilling and
eight-pence per ounce ; so that twelve ounces
went to a pound sterling ; by which it does appear,
that the sum total expended in that year amounts,
in our money, to £2078 17s. 8d., whereby is
shewn, that the Earl must have had a prodigious
estate, especially considering the vast disparity of
the prices of provisions then and now ; therefore,
we may justly conclude, that such an estate at
present would bring in, at least, £200,000 per

ACTRESSES RAISED BY MARRIAGE.

The first person among " the gentry," who chose
a wife from the stage was Martin Folkes, the
antiquary, a man of fortune, who about the year
1713, married Lucretia Bradshaw, the representa-
tive of Farquhar's heroines. A contemporary
writer styles her " one of the greatest and most
promising genii of her time," and assigns " her
prudent and exemplary conduct," as the attraction
that won the learned antiquary. The next actress,
whose husband moved in an elevated rank, was
Anastasia Robinson, the singer. The great Lord
Peterborough — the hero of the Spanish war — the
friend of Pope and Swift, publicly acknowledged
Anastasia as his Countess in 1735. In four years
after, the Lady Henrietta Herbert, daughter of
James, 1st Earl of Waldegrave, and widow of Lord
Edward Herbert, bestowed her hand on James
Beard, the performer. Subsequently, about the
middle of the eighteenth century, Lavinia Best-
wick, the original " Polly Peachum," became
Duchess of Bolton, The next on record was

336 ACTRESSES RAISED BY MARRIAGE

Miss Linley's marriage to Sheridan, one of the
most romantic episodes in theatrical unions ; and
before the 18th century closed, Elizabeth Farren,
a perfect gentlewoman, became Countess of the
proudest Earl in England, the representative of
the illustrious Stanleys. She was Lord Derby's
second consort, and mother of the present Countess
of Wilton. In 1807, the beautiful Miss Searle
was married to Robert Heathcote, Esq., brother
of Sir Gilbert Heathcote, Bart. ; and in the same
year Louisa Brunton to the late Earl Craven.
Her son is now Earl Craven, and her niece, Mrs.
Yates, the actress, still exhibits the dramatic ge-
nius of the Brunton family. " The Beggars' Opera "
again conferred a coronet ; Mary Catherine Bolton's
impersonation of " Polly Peachum " captivated
Lord Thurlow. She was married to his lordship
in 1813. In more recent times — the most fascina-
ting of our actresses, Miss O'Neill wedded Sir
William Wrixham Becher, Bart. ; Miss Foote, the
Earl of Harrington ; Miss Stephens, the Earl of
Essex; Miss Mellon, then Mrs. Coutts, the Duke of
St. Albans ; and Mrs. Nisbett, Sir William Boothby,
Bart. It has been remarked that the conduct of
each one of these ladies in her wedded life was
unexceptionable.

END OF VOL. I.

Myers and Co., Printers, 37, King Street, Covent Garden.